to Tame a Land (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  This was rough country in more ways than one. During any day's ride a man would come up to several horsemen, mighty hard-looking men. Most of them, by the loo k of them, had been up the creek and over the mountain.

  The wind was blowing, splattering rain ahead of it, an d I was thinking of something to crawl into when I hear d cattle. Just the restlessness of a good-sized bunch, an d some lowing from cows. Then I saw the hard outline o f a roof gable, and just off the road loomed a large house.

  In a flash of lightning it showed itself square and solid , built of sawed lumber.

  To one side there were corrals and a lean-to, and beyond, in an open place that was walled on three sides b y bluffs was the herd. Catching glimpses by the heat lightning, I saw the steers were big and rangy, and they looke d like young stock. It was a herd that might run to six hundred head.

  And then the rain hit. She swept in with a roar, th e solid sheets of water striking like blows on a shoulder , and I raced the gray to the lean-to and swung down.

  Here, partly out of the storm, it was quieter except for th e roar of rain drumming on the roof. The lean-to wa s partly faced, and there was shelter for several horses. I f ound a place and tied the gray, and then I slopped, hea d down against the rain, to the house.

  There was a light gleaming faintly behind a shutter, s o I banged on the door.

  Nothing happened.

  I was standing in the rain, as there was no porch, onl y a slab of rock for a doorstep. Dropping my hand to th e latch, I pressed it and stepped in, closing the door. I wa s about to call out when I heard voices. I heard a ma n saying, "You pay us now or we take the herd."

  "You've no right!" It was a woman's voice, protesting.

  "You were to be paid when the herd was delivered an d sold."

  Outside rain drummed on the roof. I hesitated, feelin g guilty and uncertain of what to do, but the conversatio n held my attention. It was also my business. This was co w talk and I was looking for cows.

  "We done changed our minds."

  In the tone of the man's voice there was somethin g hard, faintly sneering. It was a voice I did not like, an d quite obviously the voice of a man talking to a woma n with no man standing by.

  "Then I'll simply get someone else to handle the herd.

  After they're sold, you'll be paid."

  "We ain't gonna wait." The man's voice was confident, amused. "Anyway, who would you get? Ain't nobody gonna handle them cows if we say they ain't."

  I felt mighty like a fool, standing there. But this woman had a herd to sell, and it looked mighty like I'd b e doing her a favor to buy it right now. But it was not goin g to make me any friends among those men.

  "Anybody to home?" I called it out loud and there wa s silence afterward, so I walked through the door into th e lighted room.

  There were two women there. One I guessed it wa s the one who had been doing the talking was standing.

  She was young, and, in a plain sort of way, an attractiv e woman. The other woman was older. She looked frightened and worried.

  There were three men, a rough-looking outfit, unshave d and dirty. All of them were looking at me.

  "You didn't hear me knock," I said, taking off my ha t with my left hand, "so I took the liberty of coming in ou t of the rain."

  "Of course. . . . Won't you sit down?" The young woman's worry wasn't making her forget her hospitality. "We haven't much, but "

  "He won't be stayin'," the big man said abruptly. "We got business to talk. Nothin' for strangers to hear."

  Before she could speak up, I took the issue by th e quickest handle. "Heard some talk of selling cattle," I said.

  "I'm buying. How many and how much?"

  The big man had heavy shoulders and a blunt, powerful jaw. There was a cross-eyed man and one m a gra y shirt. They didn't like it. They didn't like me.

  "You heard wrong." The big man did the talking.

  "We're selling in San Antone."

  Ignoring him, I looked at the young woman. Her eye s were wary, but hopeful. "I take it you're the owner. I'l l buy the cattle here and save you the drive. I'm buying fo r Bennett, and he's the only one buying in San Anton e now."

  From an easy steal it was beginning to look to the thre e men like a total loss. The big man was getting red aroun d the gills and the others were showing their anger. So I t ook the play right away from them.

  "Ma'am, coming in like I did, I couldn't help overhearing some of the talk. Seems you hired these men to roun d up the cattle, to pay them when the cows were sold.

  That right?"

  "It is. "

  "Now you look here!" The big man stepped toward me , his lips thinned down.

  "I'll buy your cattle," I said to the young woman.

  "I'll buy them as they stand according to your tally. I'l l pay cash."

  "I'll sell."

  I swung one foot just enough to face all three of them.

  "The cattle are sold to me," I said. "You're fired."

  "You-"

  "Shut up!" I took an easy step toward the big man.

  "I'm paying you off right now. You worked for wages , and I'm paying your wages. Want to make something ou t of that?"

  It had them flat-footed. I was no defenseless woman , and while I might look young, that gun on my hip wa s as old as his.

  "We got no argument with you. You didn't hire us, yo u can't fire us."

  My eyes stayed right where they were, on him. But I s poke to her. "Ma'am, will you sell me those cows?"

  "You just bought them," she said quietly.

  "The price," I said, "will be mutually agreeable."

  The man in the gray shirt was inching his hand down.

  Some signal seemed to pass between them and the bi g man started to move. So I shucked my gun and laid th e barrel across the side of his jaw. He went down as if he'd been hit with an ax, and my gun muzzle dropped on th e other two.

  "The fewer there are," I said, "the fewer I have t o pay."

  They wanted to try me. They wanted it so bad the y could taste it. Maybe if they both tried, they might tak e me, but somebody had to make a move-and nobody wa s anxious to die. And there is something about a man wh o knows what he intends to do, who knows what he ca n do. Burdette had seen it in me, and Logan Pollard ha d seen it long ago. These men could see it now, and the y hesitated.

  The man on the floor groaned. Slowly the gray-shirre d man let his hand relax.

  "Pick him up," I said, "and get out."

  The man in the gray shirt hesitated. "What about ou r money?" he asked.

  "They were to get thirty a month," the young woma n said. "They worked about three weeks."

  With my free hand I counted out twenty-five dollar s per man. "Pick it up, and if one of you feels lucky, star t something."

  They could see I was young, but this was John Wesle y Hardin's country, and he had killed twenty men by th e time he was my age. They didn't like it, but I was to o ready, so they picked up their money and got out.

  I followed them to the door and watched them get thei r horses.

  "Don't get any ideas about those cattle," I said. "I f anything happens to them, or to any part of them , hunt down all three of you and kill you where I fin d you."

  Waiting in the doorway, I listened to them move dow n the road, then went back inside.

  The two women were putting food on the table. Th e young woman turned on me. "Thanks," she said. "Thank s very much."

  It embarrassed me, the way they were looking at me , so I said "Seven dollars a head?"

  "All right." She pushed the tally sheet across the table.

  It was for 637 head. "How will you get them to Sa n Antone?"

  "Hire riders."

  "There's nobody. Those were the Tetlow boys. Nobod y wants trouble with them."

  "Rona, we might get Johnny," the older woman suggested, "and we can both ride."

  "All right, Mom." Rona turned to me. "I've been riding since I was six. We can both help."
r />   So it was like that, and I took the herd into San Anton e with two women and a boy of fourteen helping me. Bu t I had an old mossy-horn steer leading and he liked t o travel. He was worth a half-dozen riders.

  Bennett paid Rona himself, glancing at me from time t o time. When he had paid her off, the two of them turned t o go.

  Rona held out her hand to me. "Thanks," she said.

  "They were all we had."

  One of Bennett's hands came in. "Tyler," he said, "yo u want those cows-"

  Something stopped him. I guess it was the way everybody looked. Everybody but me, that is. Bennett's fac e went kind of white, and both the women turned bac k again to look at me. We stood there like that, and I wa s wondering what was wrong.

  And then Rona said, "Your name is Tyler?"

  "Yes, ma'am," I said.

  "Not Ryan Tyler?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She looked at me again, and then she said quietly , "Thanks. Thanks, Mr. Tyler." And then both wome n walked out.

  Bennett took his cigar from his teeth and swore softly , bitterly. Then he put the cigar back in his mouth an d he looked at me. "You know who they were?"

  "Who?"

  "That was Rice Wheeler's widow . . . and his mother."

  Chapter 9

  WE, POINTED THEM north across the dry prairie grass , three thousand head of them, big longhorns led by m y tough old brindle steer. We pointed them north and too k the trail, and it was a good feeling to be heading nort h and to know that I owned part of the drive; that at las t I had a stake in something.

  After the first week the cattle settled down to the pattern of the drive. Every morning at daybreak that ol d mossy-horn was on his feet and ready, and the first tim e a cow hand started out from the chuck wagon he turne d his head north and started the herd.

  It was a hard, tough life, and it took hard men to liv e it. From daylight to dark in the saddle, eating dust, fighting ornery cow stock, driving through occasional rainstorms and fording rivers that ran bank-full with tumblin g water. But we kept them going.

  Not too fast, for the grass was rich and we wanted the m to take on weight. Sometimes for days at a time they jus t grazed north, moving the way the buffalo moved, takin g a mouthful of grass here, another there, but moving.

  Two hundred and fifty head of that stock were mine , wearing no special brand. Depending on prices, I coul d hit the other end of the trail with between five and seve n thousand dollars, and that was a lot of money. And it wa s real money, not gambling money.

  New grass was turning the prairies gray-green, and ther e were bluebonnets massed for miles along the way the cattle walked, with here and there streaks of yellow mustard.

  The grazing was good, and the stock was taking on weight.

  If we got through without too much trouble, we woul d both make money.

  Nothing was ever said about Rice Wheeler. Sometime s I wondered what they thought when they heard my nam e called and knew who I was. Bennett ventured the onl y comment, about two days out.

  I'd cut out to head off a young steer who was gettin g ornery and trying to break from the herd. Bennett helpe d me turn him back, then turned in alongside me.

  "Don't think about Wheeler," he said abruptly. "He was no good. Best thing ever happened to Rona, when h e took off and never come back."

  "Leave of his own accord?"

  "No. Folks caught him with some fresh-worked brand s in his herd. He killed a man and left ahead of the posse."

  It was a good crew we had. The oldest of the lot, no t speaking of the boss or the cook, was twenty-six. Two o f the hands had just turned sixteen. And we had fourtee n cow hands in all, seventeen with Bennett, the cook, an d me.

  We crossed the Red at Red River Station and pushe d on into the Indian Territory, heading for Wichita.

  Twice groups of Indians came down and each time w e gave them a beef. Each time they wanted more, but the y settled without argument.

  After crossing the North Canadian we lost a hand in a stampede. We buried him there, high on a hill where h e could listen to the coyotes and hear the night singing o f the herders. He was seventeen the day he was killed.

  The Osage drums were beating, and we held the her d . Close. We weren't looking for trouble, but we knew i t could come. Nighttime we slept away from the fire, an d we kept two men on watch near camp. We missed a lo t of sleep, them days. But we were getting on toward th e Kansas line, and things looked good.

  When the first cows were coming up to the Cimarro n we were attacked by a party of Osages. They came sweeping down on us from a wide-mouthed draw, a bunch o f young bucks with more nerve than sense. And they hit u s at the wrong time.

  Me, the boss, and a tough hand called Mustang Robert s were riding drag. As though by command, we swun g around, dropped to the ground, knelt, and took stead y aim. Then we waited.

  They came on fast, very fast, riding low down on thei r horses' sides. On signal, we fired.

  An Indian fell, his horse catching him in the head wit h a hoof as he went over him. A horse went down, throwin g his rider wide where a bullet from Kid Beaton's Sharp s nailed him.

  They lost three men and two horses in a matter of seconds, and drew off, deciding they'd had it.

  Two days later Mustang, went out after antelope an d didn't come in. I was in the saddle, so I swung aroun d and picked up his trail. When I'd followed him maybe fiv e miles I heard the boom of a rifle.

  It was far off in a bottom somewhere. Taking it fast , I headed toward the sound with that fine new Wincheste r of mine ready for action.

  There were six of them, all Kiowas, and they had Mustang pinned down in a buffalo wallow with his horse dea d and a bullet through his leg.

  There was no chance for surprise. They would hav e heard my horse's hoofs drumming on the sod, and the y would be ready for me. So I went in fast, the reins loope d on the pommel and shooting as I came. I wasn't hittin g anything, but I was dusting them some, and they didn't like it.

  Maybe I did burn one of them, because he jumped an d yelled. Then I went down into that buffalo wallow, ridin g fast, Mustang covering me. He nailed one of them just a s I swung down to the wallow, and then he came up an d I slid an arm around his waist as he put a boot in m y stirrup.

  Surprising thing was, we got away with it. We got clea n out of there, with Mustang shooting back at them. Five o f us came back later and picked up his saddle. We scoute d some, and found a lot of blood on the grass at one point , a little at a couple of others.

  "Killed one," Kid Beaton said. "Killed one sure."

  And then there were days of dust and driving, and th e grass thinning out a little. So we swung wide, taking a longer route, ducking the main trail, finding richer gras s to keep the stock up. Twice we stopped and let them loa f and graze two days at a time. Bennett knew cattle, an d he knew the markets.

  We moved on. Crossing the Kansas line we found a long, shallow valley with good grass and a creek. We moved the herd into the valley and made camp near th e creek, upstream from the herd in a bunch of willows an d some cottonwoods, big old trees.

  We were just finishing chuck when we heard the bea t of horses' hoofs and four men rode up.

  Mustang put his plate down and glanced over at me.

  "Watch yourself," he said.

  Three of them got down. The leader was a small ma n with a thin face and quick, shifty eyes. The two backin g him were tough, dirty men, one of them a breed.

  "My name's Leet Bowers," the leader said. "Come daylight we're cutting your herd."

  " 'Fraid you might have picked up some of our cattl e . . . by mistake," another man said, grinning.

  Bennett was quiet. He was standing there with his fee t apart, holding his coffee cup. "Nobody cuts my herd," h e said flatly.

  Bowers laughed. He had a laugh with no smile in it.

  "We'll cut it," he said.

  When they came up I'd been standing over the coffe e pot with a fresh-filled cup. Now I stepped a little
awa y from the fire, still holding the cup. "I don't think so," I s aid.

  Bowers turned to look at me. He turned his hea d straight around and looked at me out of both eyes, th e way a snake does. He had his gun tied down, and it wa s a Bisley Colt. I remember there was a patch on his vest , sewn with lighter material. The patch was below the heart.

  "We've got twenty-five fighting men," he said, and h e was measuring me. "We'll cut it, all right."

  "You don't need twenty-five," I said, stepping out a bit more from the fire. "You only need one if he's goo d enough. Otherwise twenty-five couldn't do it, nor fifty.

  The boys here," I added, "like a fight. Ain't had muc h fun this trip."

  He kept looking at me. Mustang Roberts was off on m y right. He had his leg bandaged but there was nothin g wrong with his gun hand. Kid Beaton was a little farthe r over.

  "Who're you?" he asked softly.

  "My name is Ryan Tyler," I said, "and I own some o f these cows."

  Leet Bowers's eyes glinted and his tongue touched hi s lips. He was laughing a little now. "Rye Tyler," he said , "who killed Rice Wheeler and then let Burdette run hi m out of Colorado."

  It was poor shooting light, with only the fire flickering , and the shadows uncertain and strange.

  "Burdette never ran me out of anywhere," I said, "bu t that's no matter. You ain't cutting this herd."

  "Burdette ran you out of Colorado," he repeated, a taunt m his tone. "You're yellow!"

  My first bullet cut the top of that white patch on hi s vest, my second notched the bottom of the hole made b y the first.

  Leet Bowers fell with his head in the fire but he didn't feel it. He was dead.

  It happened so fast that nobody had a chance to do anything, but no sooner had the sound of the shots died tha n Kid Beaton threw down on them with his Sharps. "Yo u boys drag it," he said, and gesturing toward the body , "Take that with you."

  "Now," said the cook. He was holding one of thos e old Colt revolving shotguns. "Or we can bury all of yo u here."

  They dragged Leet Bowers out of the fire and slun g him over his saddle. None of them looked so very spr y and I'd say they'd lost some wind.