Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “That brings me to something else,” Owen Brennan said. “I won money on you today. A good bit of it. On such occasions it’s my way to do as they often do in Ireland and England. I’ll share my winnings with you. I won more than five thousand dollars … I won’t tell you how much more … but I am adding one thousand dollars to your two hundred.”

  Cris was startled. “One thousand dollars?” It seemed too generous to be true.

  “Come to my place tomorrow, I’ll have it for you. But if I were you, I’d be careful. I’ve seen some of the Parley outfit in town; besides, that scum Murray that tried to gun you, he won’t have gone far.”

  Reppato Pratt dropped a hand to his gun, loosening it in the holster. “You sure ’bout that? Parley’s men here?”

  “Well, they used to run with that crowd, and I haven’t seen some of them around Laramie until the past few days.”

  “I’d like a chance at Murray,” growled Rep. “Cris was right atween us an’ I didn’t dast shoot at the skunk. But he wants killin’ real bad.”

  So Crispin Mayo now owned twelve hundred dollars, more money than he had seen in all the previous years of his life. To him it was a fabulous fortune, but the money brought caution. For too long he had been poor, and now this money opened doors that would otherwise be closed to him. Yet what to do, which door to choose? That needed careful thought.

  Land, of course, but where? Also he must find the right horses, a good stallion and some mares. He would be wise to consult with Owen Brennan, who had come here in much the same condition as himself, and also with Colonel McClean who must know a lot about the available stock of horses in the country. If he did not know, he would be acquainted with those who would.

  Cris walked back to the hotel with Reppato and Halloran. Once in their room, Pratt squatted on his heels against the wall. “Cris, you sit tight. I aim to sort of perambulate about an’ see what I can uncover.”

  “You don’t think Justin Parley has given up?” Cris asked.

  “Ain’t the type. He’s sot in his ways, is Justin. I seen it when I was there. Silver Dick is cautious, but he’s the planner too, though he don’t let Parley realize it. Del Robb, well, you got to watch Del. Like Murray, he’s apt to shoot most anybody for most anything.”

  Cris had heard this before, but he failed to see how it could matter to him now. Parley would certainly not raid the town, and when Cris left it would be to go west on the train. Barda McClean was with her father at the fort, hence safe.

  He soaked his face in warm water after they had gone, holding a cloth against his swollen eye. That eye was nearly closed, and the cut above it was deep. His hands, too, were battered and swollen from the tremendous beating he had given them in pounding Calkins. The scab was knocked off the little finger, which required some rough bandaging.

  Some boxing people were talking about gloves to protect a fighter’s hands, and Cris was all for it. More often than not before a fight had gone far a fighter’s hands were so swollen that he feared to hit as hard as possible. Gloves would certainly save a fighter’s hands; what would happen to the opponent when a man need no longer worry about how hard he threw a punch was another thing. He had seen the kind of gloves they talked about, and some fighters were already using them in sparring sessions, and they did little if anything to save one’s opponent. But they must help a fellow’s hands.

  It was nearly dark when he finally finished working on his battered carcass. He had found many sore places in his muscles, and more bruises than he had realized he was collecting during the fight. He had used up half a bottle of horse liniment and most of a tin of blue ointment that Rep had bought for him yesterday, and he was rather slippery and very fragrant. He lay down on the bed, hoping to catch a short nap before the others came back.

  Halloran had been let off duty as one of the escort for the hunting party because of the fight, and someone was going tomorrow in his place. He could just as well have gone, Cris reflected, for the fight was over and his services were no longer required.

  He was almost asleep when he thought of the bay horse. He must speak to Rep about that. He must find out whose horse it was. Anything to do with Parley was important.

  He was awakened suddenly by a rapping on his door, and he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to recall where he was. The rapping continued and he called out, “Just a minute!” and rolled off the bed.

  He was stiff and sore. Outside the light was gray, and he suddenly realized that he must have slept all night. He staggered to the door, only half awake. It was Rep, and Trooper Halloran with him.

  “How’re y’ doin’ there, boy? Still alive?” Rep asked, grinning.

  “Just barely. I’ve got sore bones such as I never felt before. That Calkins,” he said, “he could really punch.”

  “I been gamblin’ all night,” said Rep, and looked abashed. “Lost both o’ my horses, too, but had the sense to quit while I still had m’ weepons.”

  Suddenly the thought came back that had bothered Cris as he was falling asleep. “Rep, while I’m thinking about it: which one of the Parley outfit owns a pretty bay horse with a black mane and tail? The brand is a straight line with another straight line above it, and three vertical lines rising from that.”

  “If you’re going to stay out West, Cris, you better take a course in brand readin’. That’s the Lazy E-Bar. Holly Barnes owns that horse, and I wish I did.”

  Halloran turned sharply. “Holly Barnes? That can’t be. He’s the guide for the generals’ hunting party.”

  Crispin Mayo felt himself grow suddenly cold. His hands, feeling gingerly of his swollen face, stopped in their movement. The generals, all of them, going out to hunt buffalo with one of the Parley outfit for a guide. That could not be an accident.

  “Hal,” he asked, “how did that come about? Do you know?”

  “Durrant arranged the party. You know, that railroad man who’s in the dispute with Dodge over the right-of-way. Somebody told him of this Barnes who had been talking about seeing buffalo to the north near the creek, so Durrant sent a man to hire him to guide the party.” Halloran stared at Rep, then Cris. “You say Barnes is one of the Parley gang? Who tried to kidnap Sherman, but got McClean?”

  “That’s right, Hal. Only now they have one of their men leadin’ the whole outfit—Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Haney, Dodge, everyone—taking them right where Parley wants them.”

  “Holly might have quit Parley,” Rep said slowly. “He might have.”

  “Would you bet on it?” Cris demanded.

  “No, I surely wouldn’t,” Rep said. “Tell you what I found out, too: a lot more of Parley’s old pals are in town. His crew has growed since we tangled with it.”

  Cris glanced at Halloran. “We’d better be movin’ fast. You get to the fort and tell ’em to roust out some of your soldier boys and go after them.”

  “That’s just it,” Halloran objected, his long face very pale. “Two patrols of twenty men each went out this morning, one east and one west along the right-of-way. There aren’t more than four or five soldiers left at the fort.”

  Cris thought quickly. “Rep, grab your horse and head west along the track, get that patrol started to sweep north along the river or creek or whatever, to meet the generals’ party. I’ll go direct to them. Hal, you’d best go east and start that patrol in the right direction, or get somebody to go. We’ve got to move!”

  Halloran shook his head. “Cris, you don’t know what you’re saying. The officers in command of those patrols have their orders. You can tell them, and they may respond and they may not. We can only tell them what we know and let them decide.”

  “Tell them, man! Tell them now!”

  Rep was already gone. Cris Mayo belted on his six-shooter, caught up his rifle and ran down the hall. Running hurt, but he did it. At the door of the hotel he glanced swiftly left and right. Men were scattered along the streets, talking.

  He lined out for Brennan’s place, and seei
ng him, men began to straggle that way, wondering what was happening; for now Cris was a well-known figure in Laramie. Brennan had just started out the door when Cris grabbed him. “Brennan, I need a horse! The best horse you can find!” Quickly, he explained.

  Brennan roared out a bull’s bellow: “Hank! Joe! Hey, Swede! George! On the double!”

  The men came running, others behind them. Cris heard the words, “ … Parley. Grant and Sherman … ambush.”

  “I saw Holly on that bay horse this morning! But I never dreamed—!”

  A man came around the corner of the saloon leading a fine black stallion. “Cris! There you go! Ride him, and good luck!” yelled Brennan.

  “I’m goin’ with him!” That was Joe Hazel, one of the men Brennan had called. Other voices joined in the shout.

  “Go, boy!” Brennan clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you with thirty or forty men! Why, there’s a hundred ex-Union or Confederate soldiers in town that’d fight at your hat’s drop, and all law-and-order men!”

  Cris sprang to the saddle and turned the black horse. He was out of town at a dead run. The river lay to the north; the hunters could be no more than an hour ahead, and their progress would be leisurely, for they were in no hurry and they had a wagon following behind.

  He thought quickly. He knew only what he had seen from the railroad, but he recalled various disjointed comments from time to time about the buffalo along the river to north and south of the fort.

  He came to the tracks of the hunters. Almost at once he had a shock. There were the prints of Barda’s mare! He knew them well. Was she on the hunt? Or was somebody else riding the mare?

  Barda … she must be there. And Murray was with the outlaws.

  Barda. He felt a pang of fear. Barda with Murray again… . He looked to his rifle. It was loaded.

  This was different country from that he had crossed before. It was less open, rougher, with more rock outcrops and more groves of trees. He followed the tracks of the hunting party with ease. Then suddenly he found another set that cut across them. The tracks of a fast-moving horse headed northwest.

  A messenger to the outlaws?

  Abruptly he decided, and leaving the trail of the hunters he turned along the route of that fast-riding horse. He rode swiftly, pausing before going over every hill to look at the country ahead of him.

  Soon he found the trail of a number of horses, where they had met the rider Cris had been following. Now they were together and riding ahead on a course paralleling that of the hunting party. There seemed to be a great many of them.

  He rode on, and he could smell dust. A mile or so away, he glimpsed a buffalo, then another. He topped out on a rise, going boldly forward. If he could do nothing else he could stampede their game, spoil the hunt, and so perhaps cause the generals to turn back.

  He dropped his hand to his six-shooter. It was there, the grip on the butt a reassuring thing.

  The trail dipped down into a wooded hollow and he did not like the looks of that. A man could be trapped in a place like that. He turned west, avoiding it; and as he rounded the edge, holding to the rim of the hills, he glimpsed the hunters a mile off as they, too, topped out on a rise.

  He had no plan, no idea of what to do. Somewhere not far off were sixteen, eighteen, maybe twenty men or more, dedicated to the killing of all those in the hunting party, who rode unaware of the danger they faced, and in their midst, Barda McClean. The thought sickened him.

  Crispin Mayo sat the black horse and looked carefully around, his eyes searching every bit of cover. His tongue touched his dry lips and he tapped the horse with his heels, moving forward at a slow walk.

  He had the feeling that he was watched, that he was not alone. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. There were Indians in this land, but these men were worse than Indians, they were savages of another, more evil kind. Renegades. Butchers… .

  Before him the hill sloped down and there was a narrow path, a game trail, that led through trees and up the farther side. He hesitated, but saw no way around without riding too far from the people he was trying to warn.

  Three buffalo appeared from nowhere before him, crossing his trail at a trot, then another. There were trees along the slope of the hill below him and on an impulse he swung the black horse down into those trees. There he pulled up and lifted the rifle.

  Four men rode up the trail following the buffalo, and one of them was Murray.

  Chapter 14

  THE POSITION THAT Cris Mayo had taken offered but little cover, and any glance in his direction might reveal him. He sat very still, whispering just a little to the stallion, praying that it would make no sound.

  The four riders went on past, followed by their dust cloud, yet still he waited, his heart pounding. He needed no one to tell him how desperate his situation was. The men who were seeking to ambush the generals had equally as much reason to kill him; Murray had an even greater reason.

  To the southwest were the Medicine Bow Mountains; nearer was Laramie Creek, and the hunting party of generals had ridden up toward its waters.

  Cris knew nothing about the creek, or this land in which he found himself. Evidently Murray and the three other outlaws had been a scouting party, with the main group lying somewhere near the creek and the buffalo. No doubt Holly Barnes was even now guiding the generals closer to the river, and Cris could do nothing. They would be closely watched and if he attempted to join them and warn them he would be cut down at once by the outlaws.

  He walked his horse cautiously up the slope and into the open. From the crest of the ridge, without skylining himself, he could see for miles. Not far off he saw a good-sized bunch of buffalo. Suddenly the idea came to him … suppose he could stampede them across the path of the hunting party? Or even drive them close enough to be seen, and therefore to be a potential target? Might that help? Well, it just might.

  Dropping down off the ridge he rode fast, keeping to low ground between two lines of hills. When he came up, a few minutes later, he saw the buffalo not two hundred yards away. He started toward them, walking his horse.

  One big old bull lifted a ponderous head and stared at him. The beast took two hesitant steps toward him, then wheeled and started back in the other direction. Cris walked the black horse toward them, and uneasily they began to move away. The Parley outfit were nowhere in sight, no doubt concentrating all their attention on the hunting generals.

  He circled warily, for he knew nothing of buffalo except from the casual talk on the train, not all of which he remembered; and some comments made by Reppato Pratt; and the raging tide of them that had come at the red shack in the night, the night when he’d turned them. Cris Mayo wanted no stampede, only an alternative target that might lead the generals away from the ambush, which he felt sure would be baited with buffalo.

  If he could manage it, he might defeat Parley’s crowd without a fight. He had no urge for a shooting match. Actual combat was a last resort. There were men out there whose lives were precious to their country, and there was Barda.

  Cris pulled up and waited, watching the buffalo moving away. When they ran it was with a queer, loping gait, their heads bobbing, their long beards often touching the grass. Slowly, then, he walked his horse along a wide front, his appearance enough to keep the animals moving on.

  The air was very clear, with almost no wind. Cris stood in his stirrups and tried to see beyond the low hills to where the hunting party might be.

  There was nothing … only the shimmer of the clear, sunlit air, only the stillness. Somewhere a meadowlark called, and far overhead a buzzard swung in lazy loops, watching for what might develop.

  He dismounted and walked on, leading the black horse. The buffalo he had started were moving across the line of march on which he had glimpsed the hunting party, and if they continued to move would offer an open target, away from the creek bottom where Parley’s men must be waiting.

  The wind was from him toward the buffalo and they drifted awa
y as he approached, but because he was moving slowly, they did likewise. Where were Parley’s men? He studied each fold in the hills, knowing that they were within half a mile of him, probably less, and that any one of them would be willing to kill him on sight … only now they would be apt to hold their fire for fear of warning the generals.

  Somewhere behind were Owen Brennan and his followers, whoever he had found in Laramie where there were many veterans of the war from both sides. Brennan would be riding by now.

  Cris mounted again and began moving his horse forward, pushing the buffalo a little. Suddenly, some distance off, he saw the generals’ party ride out of a draw and pull up. He could see the sun glisten on the flanks of their horses, but was too far off to make out details or numbers.

  He cantered forward toward the buffalo, and after a look at him, they swung their big heads and moved off. Cris had been visible long enough for them to feel no great alarm at his presence, but they moved now at a more rapid pace, as he did.

  A dozen were trotting … twenty or more, with others starting. They had been scattered upon the grass, now they bunched a little. He stared at the generals’ party, shielding his eyes against the sun. They appeared to be hesitating, debating whether to follow the guide or try for this new lot who were coming at them.

  The buffalo before him veered sharply to the north, shying from a crease in the hills that must be a coulee or draw. He took his rifle in his hands. His lips felt dry … well, he knew where some of the devils were, anyway. He started to swing wide of the spot, and three men appeared, as if from the ground.

  They were on foot and not thirty yards away. What impelled him to do so he never could guess, but suddenly he kicked the black horse in the ribs and drove at them.

  His action was totally unexpected, and the horse was in a dead run before they realized he was coming at them, not running away. He leaned out, taking aim at the farthest one, and firing on the jump. He missed … but he worked the lever, fired again, and then swung the rifle butt. And that time he did not miss.