The Man from Battle Flat

by Louis L'Amour

  “Yes?” She glanced at the gelding. “I’d say your judgment of horses isn’t obvious by that one. Not that he isn’t well-shaped, and I imagine he could run, but you could do better.”

  “I doubt it.” He glanced at her fine, clean-limbed thoroughbred. “I’d bet a little money he can outrun that beauty of yours, here to Soledad.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Why, you idiot! Flame is the fastest horse in this country. He comes of racing stock!”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Haney agreed. “He’s a fine horse. But I’ll bet my saddle against a hundred dollars that this Appaloosa will kick dust in his face before we get to Soledad!”

  She laughed scornfully, and her head came up. “You’re on!” she cried, and her red horse gave a great bound and hit the trail running. That jump gave the bay the start, but Ross knew his gelding.

  Leaning over, he yelled into the horse’s ear as they charged after the bay: “Come on, boy! We’ve got to beat that bay! We need the money!” And Río, seeming to understand, stretched his legs and ran like a scared rabbit.

  As they swept into the main road and in full sight of Soledad, the bay was leading by three lengths, but despite the miles behind it, the Appaloosa loved to run, and he was running now.

  The gelding had blood of Arabians in his veins, and he was used to off-hand, cow camp–style racing. The road took a small jog, but Ross did not swing the gelding around it, but took the desert and mountain-bred horse across the stones and through the mesquite, hitting the road scarcely a length behind the big red horse.

  Men were gathering in the street and on the edge of town now and shouting about the racing horses. With a half mile to go the big red horse was slowing. He was a sprinter, but he had been living too well with too little running. The gelding was just beginning to run. Neck stretched, Ross leaning far forward to cut the wind resistance and lend impetus with his weight, the mustang thundered alongside the bay horse, and neck and neck they raced up to the town. Then, with the nearest building only a short jump ahead, Ross Haney spoke to the Appaloosa: “Now, Río! Now!”

  With a lunge, the spotted horse was past and went racing into the street leading by a length.

  Ross eased back on the reins and let the horse run on down the street abreast of the big red horse. They slowed to a canter, then a walk. The girl’s eyes were wide and angry.

  “You cheated! You cut across that bend!”

  Ross chuckled. “You could have, miss! And you got off to a running start. Left me standing still!”

  “I thought you wanted a race!” she protested scornfully. “You cheated me!”

  Ross Haney drew up sharply, and his eyes went hard. “I reckon, ma’am,” he said, “you come from a long line of sportsmen! You can forget the bet!”

  The sarcasm in his voice cut like a whip. She opened her mouth to speak, but he had turned the Appaloosa away and was walking it back toward the center of town.

  For an instant, she started to follow, and then with a toss of her head, she let him go.

  II

  Several men were standing in front of the livery stable when he rode up. They looked at his horse, then at him. “That’s a runner you got there, stranger! I reckon Sherry Vernon didn’t relish getting beat! She sets great store by the Flame horse!”

  Haney swung down and led the horse into the stable where he rubbed him down and fed him. As he worked, he thought over what he had just learned. The girl was Sherry Vernon, one of the owners of the Twin V spread, and she had overheard his meditations on his plans. How seriously she would take them would be something else again. Well, it did not matter. He was planning no subterfuge. He had come to Ruby Valley on the prod, and they could find it out now as well as later.

  The girl had been beautiful. That stuck in his mind after he thought of all the rest. It was the feeling that hung over his thinking with a certain aura that disturbed him. He had known few women who affected him, and those few had been in New Orleans or Kansas City on his rare trips there. Yet this one touched a chord that had answered to none of the others.

  Suddenly he was conscious of a looming figure beside him. For a moment he continued to work. Then he looked around into a broad, handsome face. The man was smiling.

  “My name’s Pogue,” he said, thrusting out a hand. “Walt Pogue. I own the Box N. Is that horse for sale?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “I’d not figured you’d be willing to sell. If you get that idea, come look me up. I’ll give you five hundred for him.”

  $500? That was a lot of money in a country full of ten-dollar mustangs or where a horse was often traded for a quart of whiskey.

  “No,” Haney repeated, “he’s not for sale.”

  “Lookin’ for a job? I could use a hand.”

  Ross Haney drew erect and looked over the horse’s back. He noticed, and the thought somehow irritated him, that Pogue was even bigger than himself. The rancher was all of three inches taller and forty pounds heavier. And he did not look fat.

  “Gun hand? Or cowhand?”

  Walt Pogue’s eyes hardened a shade, and then he smiled, a grim knowing smile. “Why, man,” he said softly, “that would depend on you. But if you hire on as a warrior, you’ve got to be good!”

  “I’m good. As good as any you’ve got.”

  “As good as Bob Streeter or Repp Hanson?”

  Ross Haney’s expression made no change, but within him he felt something tighten up and turn hard and wary. If Pogue had hired Streeter and Hanson, this was going to be ugly. Both men were killers, and not particular how they worked or how they killed.

  “As good as Streeter or Hanson?” Haney shrugged. “A couple of cheap killers. Blood hunters. They aren’t fighting men.” His dark eyes met that searching stare of Walt Pogue again. “Who does Reynolds have?”

  Pogue’s face seemed to lower and he stared back at Haney. “He’s got Emmett Chubb.”

  Emmett Chubb! So? And after all these years? “He won’t have him long,” Haney said, “because I’m going to kill him!”

  Triumph leaped in Pogue’s eyes. Swiftly he moved around the horse. “Haney,” he said, “that job could get you an even thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t take money for killing snakes.”

  “You do that job within three days and you’ll get a thousand dollars,” Pogue said flatly.

  Ross Haney pushed by the big man without replying and walked into the street. Three men sat on the rail by the stable door. Had they heard what was said inside? He doubted it, and yet?

  Across the street and three doors down was the Trail Emporium. For a long moment his eyes held their look at the one light gleaming in the back of the store. It was after hours and the place was closed, but at the back door there might be a chance. Deliberately he stepped into the street and crossed toward the light.

  Behind him Walt Pogue moved into the doorway and stared after him, his brow furrowed with thought. His eyes went down the lean, powerful figure of the strange rider with a puzzled expression. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here? He wore two well-worn, tied-down guns. He had the still, remote face and the careful eyes typical of a man who had lived much with danger, and typical of so many of the gunfighters of the West. He had refused, or avoided the offer of a job, yet he had seemed well aware of conditions in the valley. Had Reynolds sent for him? Or Bob Vernon? He had ridden into town racing with Sherry. Had they met on the trail, or come from the VV? That Pogue must know and at once. If Bob Vernon was hiring gun hands, it would mean trouble, and that he did not want. One thing at a time. Where was he going now? Resisting an instinct to follow Haney, Pogue turned and walked up the street toward the Bit and Bridle Saloon.

  Haney walked up to the back door of the store building, hesitated an instant, then tapped lightly.

  Footsteps sounded within, and he heard the sound of a gun being drawn from a scabbard. “Who’s there?”

  Haney spoke softly. “A rider from the Pecos.”

  The door opened
at once, and Ross slid through the opening. The man who faced him was round and white-haired. Yet the eyes that took Haney in from head to heel were not old eyes. They were shrewd, hard, and knowing.

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure. Food, if you got some ready.”

  “About to eat myself.” The man placed the gun on a sideboard and lifted the coffee pot from the stove. He filled the cup as Ross dropped into a chair. “Who sent you here?”

  Haney glanced up, then tipped back in his chair. “Don’t get on the prod, old-timer. I’m friendly. When an old friend of yours heard I was headed this way, and might need a smart man to give me a word of advice, he told me to look you up. And he told me what to say to you, Scott.”

  “My days on that trail are over.”

  “Mine never started. This is a business trip. I’m planning to locate in the valley.”

  “Locate? Here?” The older man stared at him. He filled his own cup, and, dishing up a platter of food and slapping bread on a plate, he sat down. “You came to me for advice. All right, you’ll get it. Get on your horse and ride out of here as fast as you can. This is no country for strangers, and there have been too many of them around. Things are due to bust wide open and there will be a sight of killin’ before it’s over.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Sure. An’ after it’s over, what’s left for a gun hand? You can go on the owlhoot, that’s all. The very man who hired you and paid you warrior’s wages won’t want you when the fighting is over. There’s revolution coming in this country. If you know the history of revolutions, you’ll know that as soon as one is over the first thing they do is liquidate the revolutionists. You ride out of here.”

  Ross Haney ate in silence. The older man was right. To ride out would be the intelligent, sensible, and safe course, and he had absolutely no intention of doing it.

  “Scott, I didn’t come here to hire on as a gun hand. In fact, I have already had an offer. I came into this country because I’ve sized it up and I know what it’s like. This country can use a good man, a strong man. There’s a place for me here, and I mean to take it. Also, I want a good ranch. I aim to settle down, and I plan to get my ranch the same way Pogue, Reynolds, and the rest of them got theirs.”

  “Force? You mean with a gun?” Scott was incredulous. “Listen, young fellow, Pogue has fifty riders on his range, and most of them are ready to fight at the drop of a hat. Reynolds has just as many, and maybe more. And you come in here alone . . . or are you alone?”

  The storekeeper bent a piercing gaze upon the young man, who smiled.

  “I’m alone.” Haney shrugged. “Scott, I’ve been fighting for existence ever since I was big enough to walk. I’ve fought to hold other people’s cattle, fought for other men’s homes, fought for the lives of other men. I’ve worked and bled and sweated my heart out in rain, dust, and storm. Now I want something for myself. Maybe I came too late. Maybe I’m ’way off the trail. But it seems to me that, when trouble starts, a man might stand on the sidelines, and, when the time comes, he might move in. You see, I know how Walt Pogue got his ranch. Vin Carter was a friend of mine until Emmett Chubb killed him. He told me how Pogue forced his old man off his range and took over. Well, I happen to know that none of this range is legally held. It’s been preempted, which gives them a claim, of course. Well, I’ve got a few ideas myself. And I’m moving in.”

  “Son”—Scott leaned across the table—“listen to me. Pogue’s the sort of man who would hire killers by the hundreds if he had to. He did force Carter off his range. He did take it by force, and he has held it by force. Now he and Chalk are in a battle over who is to keep it, and which one is to come out on top. The Vernons are the joker in the deck. What both Reynolds and Pogue want is the Vernon place because whoever holds it has a grip on this country. But both of them are taking the Vernons too lightly. They have something up their sleeve, or somebody has.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s this Star Levitt, for one. He’s no soft touch, that one! And then he’s got some riders around there, and I’d say they do more work for him than for the Vernon spread . . . and not all honest work, by any means.”

  “Levitt a Western man?”

  “He could be. Probably is. But whoever he is, he knows his way around an’ he’s one sharp hombre. Holds his cards close to his chest, an’ plays ’em that way. He’s the one you’ve got to watch in this deal, not Reynolds or Pogue.”

  Ross Haney leaned back in his chair and smiled at Scott. “That meal sure tasted good,” he acknowledged. “Now comes the rough part. I want to borrow some money . . . military funds,” he added, grinning.

  Scott shook his white head. “You sure beat all! You come into this country huntin’ trouble, all alone, an’ without money! You’ve got nerve! I only hope you’ve got the gun savvy and the brains to back it up.” The blue eyes squinted from his leather brown face and he smiled. He was beginning to like Haney. The tall young man had humor and the nerve of the project excited and amused the old outlaw. “How much to you want?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “That all? You won’t get far in this country on that.”

  “No, along with it I want some advice.” Haney hitched himself forward and took a bit of paper from his pocket, then a stub of pencil. Then from a leather folder he took a larger sheet that he unfolded carefully. It was a beautifully tanned piece of calfskin, and on it was drawn a map. Carefully he moved the dishes aside and placed it on the table facing the older man. “Look that over and, if you see any mistakes, correct me.”

  Scott stared at the map, then he leaned forward, his eyes indicating his amazed interest. It was a map, drawn to scale and in amazing detail, of the Ruby Hills country. Every line camp, every water hole, every ranch, and every stand of trees was indicated plainly. Distances were marked on straight lines between the various places, and heights of land. Lookout points were noted, cañons indicated. Studying the map, Scott could find nothing it had missed.

  Slowly he leaned back in his chair. When he looked up, his expression was halfway between respect and worry. “Son, where did you get that map?”

  “Get it? I made it. I drew it myself, Scott. For three years I’ve talked to every ’puncher or other man I’ve met from this country. As they told me stuff, I checked with others and built this map. You know how Western men are. Most of them are pretty good at description. A man down in the Live Oaks country who never left it knows how the sheriff looks in Julesberg, and exactly where the corrals are in Dodge.” Haney took a deep breath, then continued his story. “Well, I’ve been studying this situation quite a spell. An old buffalo hunter and occasional trapper was in this country once, and he told me about it when I was a kid. It struck me as a place I’d like to live, so I planned accordingly. I learned all I could about it, rode for outfits oftentimes just because some ’puncher on the spread had worked over here. Then I ran into Vin Carter. He was born here. He told me all about it, and I got more from him than any of them. While I was riding north with a herd of cattle, Emmett Chubb moved in, picked a fight with the kid, and killed him. And I think Walt Pogue paid him to do it. So it goes further than the fact that I’m range hungry, and I’ll admit I am. I want my own spread. But Vin rode with me and we fought sandstorms and blizzards together from Texas to Montana and back. So I’m a man on the prod. Before I get through, I’ll own me a ranch in this country, a nice ranch with nice buildings, and then I’ll get a wife and settle down.”

  Scott’s eyes glinted. “It’s a big order, son, Gosh, if I was twenty years younger, I’d throw in with you. I sure would.”

  “There’s no man I’d want more, Scott, but this is my fight, and I’ll make it alone. You can stake me to eating money, if you want, and I’ll need some Forty-Four cartridges.”

  The older man nodded assent. “You can have them, an’ willin’. Have you got a plan?”

  Haney nodded. “It’s already started. I’ve filed on Thousand Springs
.”

  Scott came off his chair, his face a mask of incredulity. “You what?”

  “I filed a claim, an’ I’ve staked her out and started to prove up.” Ross was smiling over his coffee, enjoying Scott’s astonishment.

  “But, man! That’s sheer suicide! That’s right in the middle of Chalk’s best range! That water hole is worth a fortune. A dozen fortunes. That’s what half the fighting is about.”

  “I know it.” Haney was calm. “I knew that before I came in here. That Appaloosa of mine never moved a step until I had my plan of action all staked out. And I bought the Bullhorn.”

  This time astonishment was beyond the storekeeper. “How could you buy it? Gov’ment land, ain’t it?”

  “No. That’s what they all think. Even Vin Carter thought so, but it was part of a Spanish Grant. I found that out by checking through some old records. So I hunted up a Mex down in the Big Bend country who owned it. I bought it from him, bought three hundred acres, taking in the whole Bullhorn headquarters spread, the water hole, and the cliffs in back of it. That includes most of that valley where Pogue cuts his meadow hay.”

  “Well, I’m forever bushed. If that don’t beat all.” Scott tapped thoughtfully with his pipe bowl. Then he looked up. “What about Hitson Spring?”

  “That’s another thing I want to talk to you about. You own it.”

  “I do, eh? How did you come to think that?”

  “Met an old sidewinder down in Laredo named Smite Emmons. He was pretty drunk one night in a greaser’s shack, and he told me how foolish you were to file claim on that land. Said you could have bought it from the Indians just as cheap.”

  Scott chuckled. “I did. I bought it from the Indians, too. Believe me, son, nobody around here knows that. It would be a death sentence.”

  “Then sell it to me. I’ll give you my note for five thousand right now.”

  “Your note, eh?” Scott chuckled. “Son, you’d better get killed. It will be cheaper to bury you than pay up.” He tapped his pipe bowl again. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take your note for five hundred and the fun of watching what happens.”