to Tame a Land (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  It was frosted to within an inch of the top. So right the n I did some fast thinking.

  A man going into a tight corner would first investigat e the stable, and be mighty careful about it. A man woul d approach the door only after he was sure the gir l was alone.

  So I did investigate the stable. There were two horse s in it, which meant nothing, because the rig I'd seen outside was a cutter for a two-horse team. There was som e harness there, but there was no dampness on the horses , and no snow anywhere in that stable. There were no recent tracks near the stable or the house. But I was gettin g an idea.

  From the window I could see a door, maybe to th e kitchen. But I couldn't see anything that was on this sid e of the entrance. If a man entered and was suspicious, h i would watch that kitchen door.

  If this was a trap, it was a good one laid by smart me n who knew what they were doing, and who knew the sor t of man I was. But I hadn't come out all that way jus t to ride back. Anyway, I always believed in taking the bul l by the horns.

  So I opened the door and stepped in without knocking, but I didn't just step over the threshold and stop.

  I ducked low and jumped four feet into the room, the n spun a chair around and faced the corner I couldn't se e from the outside.

  It was covered with a red blanket that reached to th e floor.

  The girl had got up and backed off, her face straine d and pale. And she was no more Liza than I was.

  "Better close the door, ma'am. Liable to get cold i n here."

  She hesitated, and put out a hand to steady herself. Sh e was dressed like a ranch woman, but her face was painted , and anybody could tell what she was.

  Where I stood, anybody behind that blanket could no t see me. If I'd stepped through that door and stopped, I'd have been a sitting duck, but now whoever was ther e would have to move out from behind that blanket. No r was I in range from the kitchen door, and as soon a s I spoke, I moved.

  Walking carefully, the girl crossed and closed the door.

  The fact that my coming was no surprise, or even th e manner of my coming, showed me I had been expected.

  "Know anything about a girl named Liza Hetrick?"

  "No. . . . No, I never heard of her."

  "Who owns this house?"

  "Why, I rent it from Mr. Billings."

  My eyes never left that curtain and she could see them.

  She was getting more and more nervous.

  By now I'd moved until I had that old sheet-iro n stove between me and the curtain. It was a hot stove, an d it stood on legs more than a foot high, bringing it mor e than chest-high on me, and it was wider than me. I t was good protection.

  The way I stood, only my right side was free of tha t stove. And that was where my gun hung.

  "You behind the curtain," I said. "Come out."

  There was no move, no sound.

  "You're a crazy fool!" The girl's voice was a little to o shrill. "Nobody's back there!"

  "All right," I said, "pick up that poker."

  She hesitated, then picked it up. "Now lift it shoulder--h igh and take a full swing with both hands," I said, "an d hit that blanket."

  "No!" She jerked back, frightened. Then she caugh t herself. "Why should I do that?"

  "Do it!"

  She touched her lips with her tongue and drew back.

  "No," she said, "I won't!"

  "All right," I said loudly, "I'll shoot into it with a shotgun."

  With sudden triumph she cried out, "He hasn't got a shotgun! He's lying!"

  She didn't say, "You haven't got a shotgun," as she . w ould have done if she'd been speaking to me, so I kne w she spoke for the benefit of whoever was concealed in th e house.

  And right then that kitchen door slammed open and a man stepped in and said, "Now, Joe!" and he shot.

  Only the trouble was, I had my right hand inside m y coat. There was a slit inside the pocket of my buffalo coa t that enabled me to grasp the gun at my belt or the shotgun, and my coat was unbuttoned.

  The shotgun was suspended by a strap inside my coa t and that kitchen door grated on a little sand, a scarcel y perceptible sound, and I stepped around the stove an d shot into the blanket, shot twice, fast as I could pull th e trigger. A bullet rang like a bell against the sheet-iro n stove, and then I turned and shot past the stove at th e man standing in the door to the kitchen.

  It was fast, like the wink of an eye. Three shots gon e in the fifth part of a second, maybe. And two men dead.

  The man in the kitchen door had taken his in th e belt. The man behind the blanket had fallen forward , pulling the red blanket down with him. One charge o f buckshot had caught him in the face and one in the chest.

  There was an acrid smell of gunpowder, and then th e sound was gone and the room was empty and I could hea r the clock ticking and the sobs of the girl. Something wa s stinging my arm. Looking down, I was surprised to se e blood there.

  The girl had drawn back into the corner and wa s staring at the dead men with horror on her face. I didn't feel sorry for her. She helped set that trap, and she playe d along with them all the way.

  One of them was Lang's deputy, the one I'd ordere d out of town. The other was a loafer I'd seen around Billings' saloon.

  Me I stood there, looking down at those two men. "Six,"

  I said. "Six and seven."

  "What?" she stared at me.

  "Nothing," I said, "only you'd better get into town. I d on't want you."

  You'll let me go?"

  "Sure," I said. "I expect you did what you were tol d to do."

  She seemed dazed. She picked up her coat and a woolen muffler, her eyes avoiding the bodies. I helped he r on with her coat. "You'll beat him," she said. "He didn't think you were so smart."

  "Hope so," I said.

  She wrapped the muffler around her head and tie d it underker chin.

  "Who is this Liza Hetrick? Are you in love with her?"

  "Me? Ma'am, she was a child when I saw her last , but pretty. I guess I was only a kid myself. I . . . I like d her. And her folks were like my own."

  "Ben knows something. I know he does. He talks abou t her as if he does." She paused. "I hope you find her."

  "If she's here, where would she be?"

  "One of the places in town. Any one of them. Be n owns them all."

  She rode back to town with me and I took her to th e stage station when the stage was there and put her on it.

  As she got in, two men started for their horses: "You," I said. "Get back inside."

  "What?"

  The shotgun came out from under my coat and the y almost tore the door down getting in.

  Right there I stayed until that stage was well out o f town and making fast time on the hard-packed snow. I w alked to the marshal's office then, and Mustang thre w down his cigarette as I came in. "You're a trouble to a man," he said dryly. "I been worried."

  So I told him what happened.

  "Figured it," he said. "Until a few minutes ago they ha d four men across the street. My guess is they were to com e in fast once they knew you were dead."

  He had two shotguns lying on the desk and a sawed -off Henry rifle.

  They would have needed more than four men to com e in that door with Mustang behind those guns. I'd see n some tough men, but Mustang was born with the bar k on. And there was no rabbit in him.

  And that night, without further delay, we started a shakedown of the houses in Alta. We started at the firs t one and worked our way down the street. We embarrasse d some folks and frightened others, but house by house w e shook the places down. We found nobody held agains t her will. We found nothing that gave us a lead.

  But we gave that town a going over it would neve r forget, and we started a few people traveling. There wa s a red-haired man who objected, but Mustang kicked hi m downstairs and knocked him into the street.

  Two weeks passed slowly, but they were weeks of comparative peace. We arrested a couple of men &or knif e fights, and Mustan
g caught in action a holdup man wh o in a misguided moment tried to shoot it out. It was a mistake.

  After that, things settled down fast. The town took a second look at the situation and women began to do mor e shopping than they had done before, and the tough boy s sang mighty small. The honest people liked it and th e crooks didn't have any choice. Billings came and wen t about his business and avoided us.

  "Too quiet," Mustang said, and I agreed with him.

  By the end of February the town had had the mos t peaceful month in its short history. Murdock came dow n to see us and told us he was pleased, but even he wa s wondering how long it would last.

  Liza was always on my mind, but I was trying t o think it out now. Billings was not a man one coul d frighten or force into talking. Whatever he might kno w he did not plan to tell. Yet something had to break.

  Meanwhile, we had been checking. The marshal previou s to John Lang had been murdered. He had been shot i n the back of the head at close range.

  John Lang had not then been in town. He had bee n sent for and promised the job of marshal. We found th e letter in the safe, where it had been left through som e oversight. The letter was signed "T. J. Farris."

  There was nobody in town by that name.

  Yet whoever had wtitten that letter had been know n to John Lang. John Lang had known him well enoug h to come all the way from Texas to take the job. Lan g had believed him. . . .

  Moreover, whoever wrote that letter had been might y sure he could do what he wanted in town.

  Ben Billings was careful. He was never out of our sight.

  Yet I couldn't forget what that girl had said. Billing s knew something about Liza.

  We watched him as he went about his business. He did not ride out of town. He was careful, mighty careful.

  He never stayed anyplace very long.

  He was worried, too. He must have known that w e knew he was guilty of arranging that plot to kill me , but we had done nothing. And that bothered him.

  Business was good. The mines were shipping ore. Everybody seemed happy . . . except me.

  Mustang, he was always on the prowl. He would tak e his home and ride away, and he would return just in tim e to take his shift. We had rounded up two more deputie s to handle the day shift, which was usually quiet. The y were local men, a tough old ex-soldier named Riley an d a miner with a bad lung named Schaumberg.

  One night I was standing alone on the street and jus t about to move on when somebody spoke to me from th e shadows.

  "Don't make a wrong move. Don't try to see who I a m. My life wouldn't be worth a plug penny. But loo k down Lang's back trail."

  "Thanks."

  "All right." The man in the darkness chuckled. "Wort h it to see Billings moppin' the floor!"

  Footsteps retreated down a narrow alleyway, and I s tood quiet until they were gine. Me, I was pretty sur e it had been the gambler with the smile.

  We wrote some letters, Mustang and me. We wrot e letters to Denver and Cheyenne, because we knew Lan g had been both places. We found out he had been in Cimarron and Tascosa. And in Cimarron he had been associated with a gambler known as Ben Blake.

  Ben Blake . . . Ben Billings. And the description s fitted. The trouble was, that was all. We couldn't ti e anybody to them. And nobody in Denver, Cimarron, Tascosa, or Cheyenne knew anything about them, or abou t anybody known as Farris.

  Mustang and me, we sat in the office one night. I t was coming on for spring and a soft wind was blowing.

  I had been around town all day and was getting restless , or maybe it was just the wind.

  Mustang, he tipped back in his chair, that long narro w face of his looking uncommon thoughtful. He slid his ha t back on his head, showing that cowlick of blond hair.

  "You sure was on your own mighty young," he sai d suddenly. "Wonder you got away from them Indians."

  "I had a fast home. Old Blue.

  "Gave him to Liza, didn't you?"

  "Well, sort of. She was to ride him."

  Mustang rolled him a smoke and when it was lit h e said thoughtfully, "You set store by that kid. Maybe sh e set some by you, too. You're a good-lookin' galoot. Al l the womenfolks in town say you're handsome. I recko n they could be right. Now, such a girl as that, not seeir e many men, she might be so dumb as to fall for you."

  "Not much chance."

  "S'posin' she did. She have anything to remember yo u by?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Except Old Blue."

  "He's prob'ly dead. Old, anyway. And most of th e horses were stolen."

  Mustang drew deep on his cigarette, and looked superior-like. "Not him," he said. "I seen him today."

  Chapter 14

  COME DAYLIGHT, we rode out there, ready for trouble.

  Really loaded for bear.

  If what Mustang figured was true, Liza would tak e care of that horse. If she cared a mite about me, sh e would keep Old Blue close to her.

  Mustang, he was a shrewd one. He set around wit h a poker face most of the time, but he used that head o f his, and he reasoned mighty well.

  He got to thinking about that girl and that ranch. He reasoned she would keep Old Blue up close to the house , In the stable, prob'ly. He reasoned Old Blue wouldn't get stolen for that reason. Besides, he was mighty old, an d no horse thief would want a gelding who was gettin g along in years.

  "Something else," Mustang said. "Whoever this T. J.

  Farris is, he knows who you are."

  "I figure."

  "I mean he knows plenty about you. He's gone t o some trouble to find out. He even knows things I don't know about you."

  "How's that?"

  "You'll see. He's been huntin' along your back trail.

  Maybe to find something to scare you with."

  This ranch was a little outfit back in the hills, not fa r from town, but out of the way. A nice little ranch wit h pole corrals and rail fences and some good meadowland.

  There were some stacks of hay put up, and I could se e some berries trimmed and up on a ience, like. She wa s a mighty nice place.

  We came riding up mighty slow. Mustang, he ha d scouted the place, and he had talked to the man wh o owned it. Or said he owned it. Only now it might be a trap.

  Sure enough, Old Blue was there. He still had on hi s winter coat and looked mighty rough, but it made a lum p come in my throat to see him. Why, he must be fourtee n years old, maybe older.

  Right then, outlaws or no outlaws, trap or none, I w asn't passing up Old Blue. I swung down and went ove r to the fence.

  "Blue," I said. "Good Old Blue!"

  His head came up and his ears pricked. He came towar d the fence, then stopped, looking at me. "Blue, you ol d sidewinder! Blue!"

  Then I reckon I shed some tears. I reckon I did. I n front of Roberts and all. With maybe guns trained on me.'

  But this was Old Blue, the home that had come across th e plains with us, the horse my pap rode, the home tha t carried me that lonely crying time after Pap was killed.

  The horse that carried me right up to the ranch wher e I'd met Liza.

  And he knew me. Don't you ever tell me a horse can't remember! He remembered, all right. He came up an d I went over that rail fence and put my arms around hi s neck. And he nuzzled me with his nose.

  "Where is she, Blue? Where's Liza?"

  And if he could have talked, he would have told me.

  I believe that. If he could have talked. Only he couldn't.

  Or . .. could he?

  A man was coming down the lane toward us, a tal l old man with gray hair, just such a man as Hetrick himself had been. Gave me a start for a minute, only whe n he came nearer I saw it wasn't him. Nor even much lik e him.

  "Knows you, doesn't he?"

  "He should. We went through it together."

  "So I was told."

  "Told? By Liza? Where is she?"

  He drew on his pipe. "No idea. I told him," he gesture d at Mustang Roberts, "I'd no idea. Only the horse wa s l
eft here.

  "A man came up one day with the home. I knew th e home because I'd seen him with the girl. She had brough t him with her behind the stage. All she had left, she said , and she was going to keep him.

  "This man who was with her, he said to keep the home.

  He said to take good care of him. He said one day you'd come along to claim him."

  "That I would?"

  "What he said. That you would. Named you to me. He said Rye Tyler would be along. That if you wanted him , he was yours. Otherwise I was to give him a home her e until he died. With the best of care."

  Now that was funny. That was most odd. What woul d anybody care about my old horse? Unless . .. maybe h e was doing it to please Liza. Right then I felt sort of sick.

  Maybe he was in love with her, and her with him. Wh y else would a man care about another man's horse?

  But this was getting mixed up. Maybe this gent had n o connection with T. J. Farris at all. Maybe he was jus t somebody who met Liza and fell in love with her. Mayb e Liza was happily married now. Maybe she was in a goo d home and I was wasting my time, and Mustang's too.

  Why else would a man think so of a home?

  "This man. What did he look like?"

  "Quiet-looking man. A cowhand, but no kid. He sai d his boss wanted the home left here."

  "His boss?"

  "Uh-huh, that's it."

  So it was another blind trail. Who might the boss be?

  "This cow hand. Where was he from? Who was he?"

  "Gave no name. Never saw him before. He gave me a hundred dollars and told me to take care of the horse.

  I'm a man who likes homes, and he knew it. And an y man would like Old Blue."

  None of this made sense. In one way, I wasn't so muc h worried. A man who would think that much of anothe r man's horse wasn't the sort to be mean with a woman.

  Yet in another way, I was worried. That sort of ma n might be the kind she could love. And that bothered me.

  I guess Mustang was right. I was in love with Liza.

  And this was another dead end. Or mighty near it.

  The thing that had me wondering was why Billing s would not talk about his connection with the girl. Especially when he must have known I'd get out of hi s wool if I took out after Liza.

  Yet two months later I was no nearer finding her, an d on the day when I again heard of her, I killed my eight h man.