L'Amour, Louis - SSC 32

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 3

  “Tell me what you want me for, and I’ll go. Otherwise I am settin’ right here.”

  “I’m arresting you on suspicion,” the sheriff had said. “Now cut the palaver and come along.”

  “Suspicion of what’?”

  “It don’t make no matter. You come along.”

  Matt Ben hesitated, then surrendered his belt gun.

  “Now, damn you,” the sheriff said. “Here’s where I kill me a Jackson!” He had failed to notice the open button on the front of Matt Ben’s shirt, and when he dropped his hand for his gun, Matt Ben shot him. Then he retrieved his own six-shooter, mounted his buckskin, and rode out of town.

  Matt Ben was frying bacon over the fire when he heard a light step. The frying pan was in his left hand, a fork in his right. For an instant, he froze.

  “Don t try it, son, Star Redman said. I don t want to kill you.”

  “Then you’re different from that sheriff back in Carson,” Matt Ben said. “That was just what he planned to do.”

  He glanced at the tall man standing inside the door. He was a lean, rangy man with quizzical gray-blue eyes and a white, drooping mustache. “I suppose you re Star Redman,” he said. “Come up to the fire. The coffee’s hot.”

  Redman, holding his gun steady, stepped over and slid the guns from Jackson’s holsters. “Sorry, Jackson. I knew you were here and didn’t plan on botherin’ you until I got word from Carson.”

  “Sit down and we’ll eat. I’m runnin’ shy on grub, but we’ll manage.” He looked up. “FireHat said you were a fair man, Sheriff, and that you were a fighter.”

  Redman sat down opposite Jackson and studied him as he prepared the meal. He was a well-built man, obviously strong, with all the marks of a rider. A glamor at his hands showed evidence of hard work.

  “Morning is soon enough to start, isn’t it, Redman?” Matt Ben asked. “This has been a long day.”

  “We”ll start tonight,” Redman said. “I don’t want to spend the night here.” He smiled. “No, I’m not worried about ghosts. It’s snow. There’s a feel of it in the air.”

  “FireHat told me about this country,” Matt Ben said, “and he said Horntown was rightly mine. Is that true?”

  “It is,” Redman admitted. “Enoch proved up on a claim and so did seven of the others. Actually, you own all the water for miles around, and what range you don’t own lies between pieces you do own. I’ve seen it all on a map. Old Enoch was no damn fool.”

  Matt Ben served the bacon and the sourdough bread and refilled their cups. So this was the end of the dream! He had thought to return here, to whip the place into some kind of shape and by hard work to establish himself as a peaceful rancher. If it had not been for that sheriff in Carson—There was always Stony Budd. A fire quickened within him. Well, why not? He had the name, so he might as well take the game. It was a long way to Webb City, and many things might happen, particularly if it began to snow. The old sheriff might be a fighter, but with all his posses he couldn’t crack the Jacksons, and he would not crack this one now.

  He would need a gun. Well, he had planned for this, knowing it might happen, although it was trouble with Stony and his crowd that he expected. He was not fooling himself about Budd. The outlaw leader wanted him because he was good with a gun, but even more because he was afraid Matt Ben might start operations of his own. Stony Budd had his own reputation. He was rumored to have killed five men in gun battles. Matt Ben, expecting trouble, had two guns hidden out. Two on which he could depend. There was a six-shooter hidden under a canvas in the manger where he stabled the buckskin. There was another in the folds of his slicker.

  Outside the wind was picking up. They could hear it growing stronger. It would be a bad night.

  “We’d better get movin’,” Redman said, pushing back his plate.

  Matt Ben got up and began tossing things into his war bag, then turned to pick up his slicker. As he stooped for it Redman spoke.

  “If’n I was to have a hideout gun,” he spoke casually, “I’d be likely to have it hidden in my slicker.”

  Matt Ben straightened, the folded slicker in his hands. After all, Star Redman had killed several of his relatives, and if right now he were to leap to one side and shoot from the slicker he’d have no worse than an even break. Then he realized he did not want to kill the old man. He did not even want to hurt him. And on the trail he would have his chance. A chance to slip away in the storm.

  “Seems you’ve outguessed me, Mr. Redman,” he said, “because I surely do have a gun here.”

  Star took the gun from the open folds of the slicker. His eyes were thoughtful, “You could’ve taken a chance, son. You might have nailed me.” He smiled. “Of course, I was ready, but you can never tell. It’s a chancy game, son.”

  Watched by the sheriff he went into the stable to get the buckskin. When in the stall and momentarily beyond view of Redman, Matt Ben slipped the manger gun into the front of his shirt. He had already donned. the slicker as protection from the cold wind, and the gun made no bulge that could be seen through its looseness. Straddling the yellow horse he spoke to Zeke. “You stay inside where it’s warm,” he whispered, ‘I’ll be back or send the sheriff to open up for you when the storm’s gone. I’m still planning to stay here in Horntown with you.”

  At the last minute, worried that the burro might be forgotten and starve, he left the door ajar. He rode out of town, Star Redman following. Once, he looked back. The old gray burro was walking after them into the desert, and into the storm.

  Star Redman stared at the sky obviously worried. Yet they had been riding for an hour when the first snowflake fell. Then there was another, and suddenly the air was white with them. “We’ll keep goin’,” Redman said, “maybe it won’t be so bad.”

  They hoth knew what it might mean to be caught out in the wastes of the Black Rock in a blizzard, and the snow was falling thickly now. There was little wind, and that was a blessing. They rode on, Matt Ben watching for his chance. If he could get even fifty yards away he could not be seen. The horses moved more slowly.

  Matt Ben glanced back. Their tracks were covered almost as soon as they stepped out of them. The wind was rising. It blew a sudden gust, almost sucking the air from his lungs.

  “Gettin’ mighty bad!” Redman shouted.

  Matt Ben was almost imperceptibly widening the gap between them. Just a little more and he would be completely obscured by falling snow. He let the yellow horse find his wav into a deep gully. Here the snow had drifted, and he let the buckskin pick his way with care down the steep side of the ravine. A misstep here and a horse could break a leg. Glancing around, he instantly went into action. The sheriff was still out of sight beyond the lip of the ravine. Turning the yellow horse, he touched spurs to him and raced away up the ravine. After a momentary spurt he let the yellow horse take his own speed.

  Behind him he heard a shout, then another. Matt Ben Jackson rode on. He reined the buckskin to a stop, listening. There was no sound but the wind, and his trail was already blotting out. He was free again. When he had ridden another mile he found a place where he could climb the horse out of the ravine. The minute his head cleared the top he felt a blast of icy wind which struck him like a blow. They had been drifting ahead of the wind when going toward Webb City; now he must face it. Horntown was the safest place now. There was fuel and there was shelter from the wind and snow. He could last out the storm, then head for Stony Budd’s and then up to Wyoming.

  The snow was falling heavier now, the wind rising. It was to be a bad storm. He turned the yellow horse toward the trail down which they had come; some of the route had been sheltered from the worst of the wind. He doubted the old sheriff would attempt a return in this storm. He would wait until it was over, and then come with a posse. Matt Ben knew his escape had been the merest fluke. He cut their trail near a rocky shoulder which offered some protection from the wind, and dismounted to rest the buckskin.

  Then he saw their tracks. Here, sheltered fro
m the wind, they had neither filled with snow nor blown away. And there, over the tracks of his horse and that of the sheriff, were the unmistakable hoofprints of the old gray burro. It was strange the storm had not turned it back. Matt Ben stared at the tracks, swearing under his breath. From where he now stood it was at least forty-five miles to Webb City, and that old gray burro, the last survivor of Horntown, would never make it. He would die out here on the snow-covered desert.

  The tracks indicated the old burro was lagging far behind, as the horse tracks had begun to fill before the sharper burro tracks were made. “Matt Ben,” he told himself disgustedly, “you’re a fool for what you’re thinking.” Yet even as he said it he knew he was going back after the old burro. He was going to get Zeke and take him back to Horntown. It wouldn’t be right to let the old fellow die out there alone. Around the town, with shelter, he might live several years.

  He mounted again and turned the buckskin back on the trail. It was somewhat sheltered in places, and occasional tracks remained. Several times he had to stop, judging the wind. He hoped it was holding to the north. It was a full hour later when he found the ravine where he had lost the sheriff. Reining in, he took his six-gun from his shirt and thrust it behind his belt under the slicker. Then he felt his way own the steep trail. When he reached the bottom Zeke was standing not a half-dozen yards away.

  Nearby, propped against the rock wall was Star Redman. His head was slumped on his chest and near him was a small pile of sticks beginning to be covered with snow. His horse stood a few feet to one side. “What the devil?” Matt Ben scrawled. For a moment he stood in the slowly falling snow and simply stared, filled with a great exasperation. Zeke saw him first and lifted his head, ears canted forward.

  “It’s all right, Zeke . Everything’s all right.” Bending over the sheriff, he put an arm on his shoulder. Redman stirred, wincing sharply. Matt Ben looked down. Even under the snow he could see an odd twist to Redman’s leg.

  “What happened?”

  “Horse slipped cumin’ into the ravine. Fell with me, an’ busted my leg. Guess I must’ve passed out as I was tryin’ to build a fire.” He looked up. “I yelled at you, but I guess you didn’t hear.”

  Matt Ben straightened up, swearing mentally. He walked over to the sheriff s horse. The horse was sound. He led it over to Redman. “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, wind-swept 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 he 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 heen 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 he 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 he 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 me
ant 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 I

  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 wagon to meet them. He was a short, powerfully setup 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.