The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1

by Louis L'Amour

  With a mirror nailed to the chuck wagon’s side I shaved and combed my hair and made myself ready for courting. It was much to expect of any girl, to ride to Texas with a man she did not know, and yet in those days when men constantly moved such things happened. There were few men from whom to choose in those wild small towns, and the best were often moving and had to be taken on the fly. And to me this was the girl and now was the time.

  There was John Blake to consider, a man seasoned in the wars of men and cattle, who knew all the dodges and all the tricks, and whatever a man might invent he had known before. Each herd had a man who wished to prove himself against a trail town marshal, never grasping the difference between the skilled amateur and the hardened professional. John Blake looked upon men with vast patience, vast understanding, and used a gun only when necessary, but when he used it he used it coldly, efficiently, and deliberately.

  In a black broadcloth suit with my hat brim down, I rode up the middle of the street with the reins in my left hand, my right resting on my thigh near my gun.

  Tonight I was more than a Texas man a-courting, I was a challenge to the rule of John Blake, and it was something I had no liking for. No man from the Texas trails had been north of the street since he had been marshal, and it was assumed that no man would.

  Outside the town a Rocking K rider dozed on the ground near his horse, and grazing close by was another horse, saddled and bridled for travel.

  John Blake was not in sight, but when I passed the livery stable Tod Mulloy was seated under the light, minding his own business, and on the edge of the walk near the eating house Rule Carson smoked a cigar. Inside, over coffee, were Delgado and Enright. They would not interfere, but would be on hand if needed. Nor did I doubt that the rest of them were scattered about town, just waiting for my call.

  At the end of the street when I turned north John Blake was awaiting me. And I drew up.

  “I’d hoped it would not come to this, John, but a man must go a-courting. He must go where his heart would take him, and I think in my place, you would go, no matter what.”

  He considered that, a square black block of a man looking as solid as rock and as immovable. “It might be,” he agreed, after a moment, “but is it courting you are about, or is this a Texas challenge to me?”

  “I wouldn’t go risking the lady’s reputation by asking her to sneak away and meet me after dark. This is no challenge.”

  He nodded. “If it was,” he replied, “I’d stop you, for kill or be killed is my job when it comes to an issue, but I’d stop no decent man from courting … although if I were giving advice about the woman in question—”

  “Don’t,” I said. “A man with his heart set isn’t one to listen.”

  “You’re not out of the woods,” Blake added. “Believe me, I’ve nothing against you or any decent man making a decent call. It’s the drunks and the fighting I want to keep south of the street. However, that is a thing of yesterday for me. I have quit my job.”

  “Quit!”

  “Aye. McDonald told me to keep you south of the street tonight, or lose my job. He has grown arrogant since he took office, and I work for the town, not just the mayor. I was hired to keep the peace, and that only. So I’ve quit.”

  The stubborn foolishness of McDonald angered me, yet in a sense I could not blame the man, for generally we were a wild crowd and if a man did not understand us he might easily believe us capable of any evil. At the same time I had pride in my promises, and I had said I would call.

  “If you’ve actually quit, I’d like to take advantage of the fact you’re no longer marshal here.”

  He shot me a quick look. “I want nobody hurt, Gavagan. I’ve quit, but I’ve still a feeling for the town.”

  “It would be like this …” and he listened while I explained the idea that had come to me.

  “It must be carefully done, no fighting, do you hear?”

  Turning my horse I rode back to talk with Carson, Mulloy, Enright, and Delgado. Immediately after I had finished they scattered out to talk to the others and take their positions.

  “I saw them going up to the house with their rifles,” Carson said. “Carpenter who owns the store is there, with Wilson, Talcott, and some I do not know by name, but all have businesses along the street, so I think it will work.”

  Circling through the darkness I rode up to the house among the poplars, but stopped across the street. It had been quiet for the boys from the Rocking K and they ached to blow off steam and dearly loved a joke. So this might work.

  Leaving my horse I crossed the alley where the shadows were deep and drew near the house. I heard subdued voices beneath the trees.

  “I don’t like it,” Carpenter was saying. “Once that Texas crowd know Blake has quit they will blow the lid off.”

  “It was a fool idea. John Blake has kept the peace.”

  “Tell that to McDonald. He would have Blake on some other excuse if not this. The man will have nobody who won’t kowtow to him.”

  Suddenly there was a crashing and splintering of wood from the street, followed by a gunshot and a chorus of Texas yells that split the night wide open, and then there was another outburst of firing and a shattering of glass.

  “There they go!” Carpenter stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. “What did I tell you?”

  Down the street charged four Rocking K riders, yelling and shooting. It reminded me of the old days when I was a youngster on my first trip up the trail.

  The front door slammed open and McDonald came rushing out, an angry man by the sound of him. “What’s that? What’s going on?”

  The night was stabbed and slashed by the blaze of gunshots, and intermingled with them was the smashing of glass and raucous yells. The boys were having themselves a time.

  “You fired Blake,” Carpenter said, “and the lid’s off.”

  “We’ll see about that!” McDonald said. “Come on!”

  They rushed for the street in a mass, and when they did I moved closer, stepped over the fence, and crossed the lawn to the house.

  Suddenly as it had started, and just as we had planned, a blanket dropped upon the town. Not a shout, a shot, or a whisper. By the time McDonald got there the hands would be seated around, playing cards and talking, looking upon the world with the wide-eyed innocence of a bunch of two-year-olds.

  The door opened under my rap and June stood there in a pale blue dress, even more lovely than I had expected.

  “Why, it’s you! But—!” She looked beyond me into the night. “Where is Uncle Aaron?”

  “May I come in?”

  Startled, she looked up at me again, then stepped back and I went in and closed the door behind me. Hat in hand I bowed to Mrs. McDonald, who was behind her.

  The room was stiff, cluttered and lacking in comfort, with plush furniture and a false, unused elegance. There was too much bric-a-brac, and not a place where a man could really sit. Suddenly I remembered the spaciousness of the old Spanish-style houses I had known in Texas.

  “We heard shooting,” June said.

  “Oh, that? Some confusion in town. I believe your uncle went down to put a stop to it.”

  She looked at me carefully, and I seemed to sense a withdrawing, a change that I could not quite grasp.

  “You’re not dressed for riding,” I said.

  She flushed. “You surely didn’t believe … you weren’t serious?” She looked at me in amazement. “I thought … I mean, it was rather fun, but … could you imagine, me going with you …”

  Something went out of me then and I stood there feeling the fool I undoubtedly was. Some fine, sharp flame flickered within me as though caught in a gust of wind, then snuffed out and left me empty and lost … it might have been the last spark of my boyhood. A man must grow up in so many ways.

  On the street she had seemed beautiful and strong and possessed of a fine courage, and in the romantic heart of me I had believed she was the one, that she was my dream, that she was the gi
rl who rode in my thoughts in the dust of the drag or the heat of the flank.

  She stared at me, half astonished, and within me there was nothing at all, not sorrow, not bitterness, certainly not anger.

  “Good night,” I said. “I am sorry that I intruded.”

  She had cost me a dream, but suddenly I was aware that she would have cost me the dream anyway, for that was what I had been in love with … a dream.

  Opening the door, I was about to leave when Aaron McDonald pushed past me. Anger flashed in his eyes, and his face paled with fury that was in him. “Look here!” he shouted. “You—!”

  “Shut up, you arrogant windbag,” I said, and walked on out the door leaving him spluttering. And to the others who were outside, I said, “Get out of my way,” and they stepped back and the gate creaked on rusty hinges when I stepped out.

  A hand on the pommel of my saddle, I stood for a moment under the stars, cursing myself for seven kinds of an idiot. Like any child I had been carried away … who did I think I was, anyway?

  Yet although the fire was out the smoke lifted, and I hesitated to step into the saddle, knowing the finality of it. The things a man will wish for are harder to leave behind than all his wants, and who, at some time in his life, does not dream of gathering into his arms and carrying away the girl he loves?

  The men of the Rocking K came from the saloons and stood around me, and when they looked at my face, something seemed to shadow theirs, for I think my dream was one lived by them all, and had it come true with me then all their lonely dreaming might be true also.

  “We’ll be going,” I said.

  Yet there was a thing that remained to be done, for as I had lost something this day, I had gained something, too.

  “I’ll join you at the wagon,” I told them, and turning at right angles I rode between the buildings toward the south of town.

  It was a simple room of rough boards with one window, a small stove, and a bed. John Blake had his coat off and he was packing, but he turned to face whoever was at the door.

  “John,” I said, “she would not come and I was a fool to expect it. I have grown a little tonight, I think.”

  “You have grown a little,” he agreed, “but don’t expect too much of it, for there will be other times. Each time one grows, one loses a little, too.”

  “John,” I said, “there are cattle on the plains of Texas and I’ve land there. When I come north again I’ll be driving my own herd. It is a big job for one man.”

  “So?”

  “There will be rivers to cross and the Comanches will be out, but there’s a future in it for the men who make the drives.

  “I like the way you straddle a town, and I like a man with judgment and principle. It is a rare thing to find a man who will stand square on what he believes, whether it is making a rule or an exception to it. So if you’ll ride with me it’s a partnership, share and share alike.”

  A square, solid man in a striped white shirt and black sleeve garters, he looked at me carefully from those cool gray eyes, and then he said, quite seriously, “I’ve little to pack, for a man who has never had anything but a gun travels light.”

  Caprock Rancher

  When I rode up to the buffalo wallow, Pa was lying there with his leg broke and his horse gone.

  Out there on the prairie there wasn’t much to make splints with, and Pa was bad hurt. It had seemed to me the most important things for a man to know was how to ride a horse and use a gun, but now neither one was going to do much good.

  Earlier in the day Pa and me had had a mean argument, and it wasn’t the first. Here I was, man-grown and seventeen, and Pa still after me about the company I kept. He was forever harping on Doc Sites and Kid Reese and their like … said they were no-goods. As if he was one to talk, a man who’d never had money nor schooling, nor any better than a worn-out coat on his back. Anyway, Doc and Kid Reese weren’t about to be farmers or starving on a short-grass cow ranch.

  Pa, he’d been at me again because I’d be dogged if I was going to waste my life away on what little we could make, and told him so … then I rode off to be an outlaw. For the first two miles I was good and mad, and for the third mile I was growling some, but I’d made most of ten miles before my good sense got the better of me and I started back to help Pa. He had a far piece to go, and he was a lone man packing twenty thousand dollars through some mighty rough country.

  It was midafternoon of a mighty hot day when I came up to that buffalo wallow, and Pa had been lying there four, five hours. His canteen had been on his saddle and the horse had taken off, so I got down and gave him a swallow or two from mine.

  All that argument was forgotten. Times like that a man is best off doing one thing at a time and not worrying around too much.

  “Thanks, boy.” Pa returned the canteen to me. “Looks like I played hob.”

  “That gray never did have a lick of sense,” I said, and then I told it to him. “You got a busted leg, but your jaw’s in good shape. So you set back an’ argue with me whilst I set that bone.”

  “You just forget about me. All that money is in those saddlebags, and less than a third of it ours. You forget me and hunt down that horse.”

  That twenty thousand dollars was from a steer herd we’d taken to Kansas and sold, and folks back home were a-sweating until we got back with the money. Cash money was hard to come by those times, and most of this would go to mighty poor folks who hadn’t seen a hard dollar since who flung the chunk.

  “You got a broke leg. We’ll take care of that first.”

  Nothing was growing around but short grass and some knee-high mesquite, but I got Pa’s leg set and cut mesquite with my bowie and splinted up best I knew how. All that time he set there a-looking at me with pain in his eyes and never let out a whimper, but the sweat stood out on both our faces, you can bet.

  If you were ever seventeen years old and standing in a buffalo wallow one hundred and fifty miles from home, and your pa with a broke leg, you know how I felt. And only one horse between us.

  With my help he got straddle of that horse and we started off with two things in mind. To get to a creek where there was water, and to find that fool horse.

  Judging by the tracks, that gray had taken off like wolves was after him, but after half a mile he began to slow up and look back expecting to be chased. Then on, he got the smell of water and just sort of ambled, taking a bite of grass or mesquite beans now and again. Pa, he sat up in the leather and never said I, yes, or no. This time it was up to me and both of us knew it.

  The sun was beyond the hill and color was in the evening sky when we saw those other tracks. They came in from the southeast and they were the tracks of three shod horses … and they caught Pa’s horse.

  This was just across the border from Indian Territory and while honest men crossed it, aside from the Indians, few honest men lived there. To be a Deputy U.S. Marshal in Indian Territory was like standing yourself up in the business end of a shooting gallery. Every outlaw in the country spent time there, and we knew if those had been good men who caught up Pa’s horse, or even a decent kind of outlaw, they’d backtrack to find the rider. In those years folks were helpful to one another, and to be afoot in a country like that was about the worst that could happen. It left a man with mighty few possibilities.

  These men had caught up Pa’s horse and checked the saddlebags, and they didn’t come looking for Pa.

  “Son”—Pa could read those tracks as well as me—“don’t you get any notions. You ain’t about to go up against three men, not with me in this condition.”

  “Ain’t nothing to worry about. Those boys are friends of mine. One of them is Kid Reese and another is Doc Sites. Why, I’d know those horse tracks if I saw them in Gilead. This time of night they won’t go far and we’ll have your horse and money in no time.”

  Pa, he just sat up there on my horse and he said nothing at all for a while, and then he said, “Ed, you reckon those boys would give back twenty thousand doll
ars?”

  It gave me an uneasy feeling, him saying that. Pa set no store by either of them, but they were good boys. Free and easy, that’s sure, but they were friends of mine. When Pa and me moved into that Texas country they’d let me take up with them. We-all were usually up to no good, but that was what you’d expect from three youngsters caught somewheres between being boys and being men. It’s true we were always talking of standing up a stagecoach or robbing a bank, but that was mostly talk. Taking money from a friend … well, they weren’t that kind.

  It was not much of a creek. Stars were in the sky when we fetched up to it, and it wasn’t more than two, three feet wide and maybe four, five inches deep, but it was wet water, lined with willows and cottonwoods and grass aplenty. When I helped Pa off the horse, I bedded him down and filled the canteen for him.

  “You set quiet,” I said, “I’ll go fetch your horse.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Edwin,” Pa said. “You say those boys are your friends, but there’s a sight of money in those saddlebags … not many who value friendship that high.”

  Pa never called me Edwin unless he was downright serious. That money was important for reasons beyond what it could buy. Pa was always holding on about the value of a good name, and for the first time I was faced up to what it could mean. Pa was a respected man, but if we showed up without that money a lot of folks were going to remember that I’d been swaggering it around town with Doc Sites, Kid Reese, and that outfit. Some of them were going to say things about us losing the money, and Pa would take the blame as well as me.

  We Tuckers never had much but an honest reputation. We were never able to get ahead. A while back we lived in Missouri, and that was the year Pa had his first good crop, and the year the grasshoppers ate him out. Two years of bad drought followed and we lost the place. We settled in Texas then and worked like dogs, and when we got our first trail herd together the Comanches came down and burned us out in the light of the moon. They burned us out, drove off our cows, and killed Uncle Bud.