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

by Louis L'Amour

  Nobody said anything for a while, and then I said, “Creosote-brush fires flavor beans—the best ever. You try them sometime, and no beans ever taste the same after.”

  The fire crackled, and I added a few small, dry sticks and then said, “It ain’t right, leaving him thisaway. He’s likely worried to death.”

  She looked across the fire at me, all stiff and perky. “That is none of your business!”

  “Mrs. Mallory, when you saddled yourself on me, you made it my business. Girl who marries a soldier ought to think to live a soldier’s life. Strikes me you’ve no nerve, ma’am, you cut and run because of dirt floors. I’d figure if a girl loved a man it wouldn’t make her no mind. You’re spoiled, ma’am. You surely are.”

  She got up, standing real stiff, coming the high and mighty on me. “If you do not want me here, I will go.”

  “No, you won’t. First off, you haven’t an idea where you are or which way to go to get there. You’d die of thirst, if that lion didn’t get you.”

  “Lion?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I wasn’t exactly lying, because somewhere in Arizona there was sure to be a lion prowling. “There’s snakes, too, and at night you can’t see them until they get stepped on.”

  She stood there looking unsure of herself, and I kept on with what I had to say. “Woman needs a man out here—needs him bad. But a man needs a woman too. How do you think that man of yours feels now? His wife has shamed him before others, taking on like a girl-baby, running off.”

  She sat down by the fire, but she looked at me with a chilly expression. “I will thank you to take me to Hardyville. I did not mean to ‘saddle’ myself on you, as you put it. I will gladly pay you for your trouble.”

  “Ain’t that much money.”

  “Don’t say ‘ain’t’!” She snapped her eyes at me.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, “but you better get you some shut-eye. We got to ride fifty miles tomorrow, and I can’t be bothered with any tired female. You sit up on that horse tomorrow or I’ll dump you in the desert.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I surely would. And leave you right there, and all your caterwauling wouldn’t do you a mite of good. You get some sleep. Come daylight we’re taking out of here faster than a scared owl.”

  Taking up my rifle I went out to scout the country, and setting up there on that rock slab I done my looking and listening. That fire was still aburning, away off yonder, like a star fallen out of the sky.

  When I came back, she was lying on the bed I’d made, wrapped in a blanket, already asleep. Seen like that with the firelight on her face she looked like a little girl.

  It was way shy of first light when I opened my eyes, and it’d taken me only a minute or two to throw the saddles on those broncs. Then I fixed that pack saddle for her to ride. My outfit was skimpy, so it wasn’t much extra weight, carrying her.

  When I had coffee going, I stirred her awake with a touch on the shoulder, and her eyes flared open and she was like to scream when she saw me, not that I’d blame her. In my sock feet I stand six-three, and I run to shoulders and hands, with high cheekbones and a wedge face that sun had made dark as any Indian. With no shave and little sleep I must have looked a frightening thing.

  “You better eat a little,” I said. “You got five minutes.”

  We rode out of there with the stars still in the sky, and I was pleasant over seeing no fire over yonder where it had been the night before.

  It was just shy of noon, with the sun hot in the sky, when we crossed a low saddle and started out across a plain dotted with Joshua trees—named by the Mormons who thought they looked like Joshua lifting his arms to Heaven.

  We came down across that country, and there had been no dust in the sky all morning, but of a sudden four men rode up out of a draw, and it was the Coopers. Their description had been talked around enough.

  “Howdy, Coopers! You hunting something?”

  They looked at Christine Mallory and then at me. “We’re looking for you,” one said, “and that gold, but we’ll take the lady, too, sort of a bonus-like.”

  Like I said, when you’ve quit running, you can talk or you can fight, and times like this I run long on talk.

  “You’ll take nothing,” I said. “You are talking to Tell Sackett—William Tell Sackett, to be exact, as my pa favored William Tell in his thinking. We Sacketts hail from the Cumberland Gap in Tennessee, and Pa always taught us never to give up nothing without a fight. Specially money or a woman.

  “Now,” I continued on before they could interrupt, “back to home, folks used to say I wasn’t much for fiddling or singing, and my feet was too big for dancing, but along come fighting time, I’d be around.

  “Couple of you boys are wearing brass buttons. I figure a forty-four slug would drive one of those buttons so deep into your belly a doc would have to get him a search warrant to find it.”

  My horse was stepping around kind of uneasy-like, and I was making a show of holding him in.

  “Anyway,” I said, “this here is General James Whitfield Mallory’s wife, and if you so much as lay a hand to her, this territory wouldn’t be big enough to hold you. He’s the kind to turn out the whole frontier Army just to hunt you.”

  My horse gave a quick sidestep about then, and when he swung his left side to them, I used the moment to fetch out my gun, and when the roan stopped sidestepping, I had that big Colt looking at them.

  Pa, he set me to practicing getting a gun out as soon as the end of my holster quit cutting a furrow in the ground when I walked. Pa said to me, “Son, you ever need that gun, you’ll need it in your fist, not in no holster.”

  They were surprised when they saw that gun staring them down, and this George Cooper was mad clean through. “That ain’t going to cut no ice,” he said. “We want you, we’ll take you.”

  “One thing about this country,” I said, “a man’s got a right to his opinion. Case like this here, if you’re wrong, you don’t get a chance to try it over. Any time you want to give it a try,” I said, “you just unlimber and have at it.”

  Nobody had anything to say, none of those Coopers looking anything but mad right about then, so I kept on, figuring when we were talking we weren’t fighting.

  “I got me a bet, Coopers; I got me a bet says I can kill three of you before you clear leather—and that last man better make it a quick shot or I’ll make it four.”

  “You talk a good fight,” George Cooper said.

  “You can call my hand. You got the right. One thing I promise, if I don’t kill you dead with my first shots, I’ll leave you lay for the buzzards and the sun.”

  Those Coopers didn’t like it much, but my roan was standing rock still now that I’d quit nudging him with my spur, and at that range a man wasn’t likely to miss very often. And it’s a fact that nobody wants to die very much.

  “If she’s Mallory’s wife, what’s she doing with you?”

  “She was headed for Whipple,” I said, “and she turned sick, and the doc said she should go back to Ehrenberg. They asked me to take her there. Served with the general during the war,” I added. “He knows me well.”

  “I never heard of no General Mallory,” George Cooper said.

  “You never heard of General James Whitfield Mallory?” By now I believed in him my own self. “He was aide to General Grant! Same class at the Point with Phil Sheridan and Jeb Stuart. Fact is, they are talking of making him governor of the territory just to wipe out outlaws and such.

  “Begging the lady’s pardon, but he’s noted for being a mighty mean man—strict. And smart? He’s slicker than a black snake on a wet-clay sidehill. Last thing you want to do is get him riled.

  “Lady here was telling me if he is made territorial governor he plans to recruit a special police force from among the Apache. He figures if those Apaches hate white men they might as well turn it to use tracking down outlaws—and he doesn’t say anything about them bringing anybody back.”r />
  “That’s not human!” George Cooper protested.

  “That’s the general for you. He’s that kind.” Now that trusty Colt had stayed right there in my fist, and so I said, “Now, we’ll ride on.”

  Motioning her on ahead, I rode after her, but believe me, I sat sidewise in my saddle with that Colt ready for a quick shot. The last I could see they were still a-setting there, arguing.

  Most talking I’d done since leaving Tennessee, and the most lying I’d done since who flung the chunk.

  We fetched up to Hardyville about sundown on the second day, and the first person I saw when we rode up to the store was Bill Squires.

  “Bill,” I said, “the Coopers were a-hunting me. Only way they could have known I had that gold was if you told them. Somebody had to ride out to tell them, and somebody would want to be on hand to divvy up.

  “Now,” I said, “if you want to call me a liar, I’ll take this lady inside and I’ll come right back. But you hear this: They didn’t get one speck of this gold, and neither are you.”

  “I panned my share of that gold!” He was looking mighty bleak.

  “So you did, but yours wasn’t enough; you had to try for all of it. A month or so back Jack Walker left camp and was dry-gulched. I plan to send your gold to his widow and family, and you can save your objections to that until I come out.”

  So I went inside with Christine Mallory, and there were two or three fresh Army officers right off the boat waiting to go to Fort Whipple.

  “My husband is not a general,” she said then, “and his name is Robert Mallory.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Mallory. Your husband is Second Lieutenant Robert Mallory, and he’s greener than meadow grass. Month or so back he came out and ordered me to get my horse off the parade ground at Whipple. Mighty stiff-necked he was too.

  “Ma’am, you haven’t got you a man there, you’ve got a boy, but a boy sound in wind and limb; and two or three years on the frontier will give you a man you can be proud of. But if you run off now the chances are he will resign his commission and run after you, and you’ll have a boy for a husband as long as you live.

  “You stay with him, you hear? You ain’t much account, either, but give you seasoning and you will be. Fact is, if you’d been a woman back there on that trail I might have been less of the gentleman, but you haven’t grown up to a man yet.”

  She had the prettiest blue eyes you ever saw, and she looked straight at me. She was mad, but she was honest, and behind those blue eyes she had a grain of sense.

  “You may be right,” she admitted, “although I’d rather slap your face than agree. After what I have been through these past few days, that dirt floor would look very good indeed.”

  “Ma’am, when my time comes to marry, I hope I find a woman as pretty as you—and with as much backbone.”

  Leaving her talking to those officers, I went to the counter with my gold and checked it in with Hardy in the names of those to whom it was credited, to Jim Hodge, Willy Mander, Tom Padgett—and to Mrs. Jack Walker, whose address I supplied.

  “And I’ve got a hundred dollars coming,” I said.

  Hardy paid it to me, and I put it in my pocket. More money than I’d seen since the coon went up the tree.

  Then I went outside like I’d promised, and Bill Squires surprised me. He was sure enough waiting.

  He shot at me and missed. I shot at him and didn’t.

  The Defense of Sentinel

  When the morning came, Finn McGraw awakened into a silent world. His eyes opened to the wide and wondering sky where a solitary cloud wandered reluctantly across the endless blue.

  At first he did not notice the silence. He had awakened, his mouth tasted like a rain-soaked cathide, he wanted a drink, and he needed a shave. This was not an unusual situation.

  He heaved himself to a sitting position, yawned widely, scratching his ribs—and became aware of the silence.

  No sound … no movement. No rattling of well buckets, no cackling of hens, no slamming of doors. Sentinel was a town of silence.

  Slowly, his mind filling with wonder, Finn McGraw climbed to his feet. With fifty wasted years behind him, he had believed the world held no more surprises. But Sentinel was empty.

  Sentinel, where for six months Finn McGraw had held the unenvied position of official town drunk. He had been the tramp, the vagabond, the useless, the dirty, dusty, unshaven, whiskey-sodden drunk. He slept in alleys. He slept in barns—wherever he happened to be when he passed out.

  Finn McGraw was a man without a home. Without a job. Without a dime. And now he was a man without a town.

  What can be more pitiful than a townless town drunk?

  Carefully, McGraw got to his feet. The world tipped edgewise and he balanced delicately and managed to maintain his equilibrium. Negotiating the placing of his feet with extreme caution, he succeeded in crossing the wash and stumbling up the bank on the town side. Again, more apprehensively, he listened.

  Silence.

  No smoke rising from chimneys, no barking dogs, no horses. The street lay empty before him, like a street in a town of ghosts.

  Finn McGraw paused and stared at the phenomenon. Had he, like Rip van Winkle, slept for twenty years?

  Yet he hesitated, for well he knew the extreme lengths that Western men would go for a good practical joke. The thought came as a relief. That was it, of course, this was a joke. They had all gotten together to play a joke on him.

  His footsteps echoed hollowly on the boardwalk. Tentatively, he tried the door of the saloon. It gave inward, and he pushed by the inner, batwing doors and looked around. The odor of stale whiskey mingled with cigar smoke lingered, lonesomely, in the air. Poker chips and cards were scattered on the table, but there was nobody.… Nobody at all!

  The back bar was lined with bottles. His face brightened. Whiskey! Good whiskey, and his for the taking! At least, if they had deserted him they had left the whiskey behind.

  Caution intervened. He walked to the back office and pushed open the door. It creaked on a rusty hinge and gave inward, to emptiness.

  “Hey?” His voice found only an echo for company. “Where is everybody?”

  No answer. He walked to the door and looked out upon the street. Suddenly the desire for human companionship blossomed into a vast yearning.

  He rushed outside. He shouted. His voice rang emptily in the street against the false-fronted buildings. Wildly, he rushed from door to door. The blacksmith shop, the livery stable, the saddle shop, the bootmaker, the general store, the jail—all were empty, deserted.

  He was alone.

  Alone! What had happened? Where was everybody? Saloons full of whiskey, stores filled with food, blankets, clothing. All these things had been left unguarded.

  Half-frightened, Finn McGraw made his way to the restaurant. Everything there was as it had been left. A meal half-eaten on the table, dishes unwashed. But the stove was cold.

  Aware suddenly of a need for strength that whiskey could not provide, Finn McGraw kindled a fire in the stove. From a huge ham he cut several thick slices. He went out back and rummaged through the nests and found a few scattered eggs. He carried these inside and prepared a meal.

  With a good breakfast under his belt, he refilled his coffee cup and rummaged around until he found a box of cigars. He struck a match and lighted a good Havana, pocketing several more. Then he leaned back and began to consider the situation.

  Despite the excellent meal and the cigar, he was uneasy. The heavy silence worried him, and he got up and went cautiously to the door. Suppose there was something here, something malign and evil? Suppose—Angrily, he pushed the door open. He was going to stop supposing. For the first time in his life he had a town full of everything, and he was going to make the most of it.

  Sauntering carelessly down the empty street to the Elite General Store, he entered and coolly began examining the clothing. He found a hand-me-down gray suit and changed his clothes. He selected new boots and donned them as
well as a white cambric shirt, a black string tie, and a new black hat. He pocketed a fine linen handkerchief. Next he lighted another cigar, spat into the brass spittoon, and looked upon life with favor.

  On his right as he turned to leave the store was a long rack of rifles, shotguns, and pistols. Thoughtfully, he studied them. In his day—that was thirty years or so ago—he had been a sharpshooter in the Army.

  He got down a Winchester ’73, an excellent weapon, and loaded it with seventeen bullets. He appropriated a fine pair of Colts, loaded them, and belted them on, filling the loops with cartridges. Taking down a shotgun, he loaded both barrels with buckshot, then he sauntered down to the saloon, rummaged under the bar until he came up with Dennis Magoon’s excellent Irish whiskey, and poured three fingers into a glass.

  Admiring the brown, beautiful color, the somber amber, as he liked to call it, he studied the sunlight through the glass, then tasted it.

  Ah! Now that was something like it! There was a taste of bog in that! He tossed off his drink, then refilled his glass.

  The town was his—the whole town—full of whiskey, food, clothing—almost everything a man could want.

  But why? Where was everybody?

  Thoughtfully, he walked outside. The silence held sway. A lonely dust devil danced on the prairie outside of town, and the sun was warm.

  At the edge of town he looked out over the prairie toward the mountains. Nothing met his eye save a vast, unbelievable stretch of grassy plain. His eyes dropped to the dust and with a kind of shock he remembered that he could read sign. Here were the tracks of a half-dozen rigs, buckboards, wagons, and carts. From the horse tracks all were headed the same direction—east.

  He scowled and, turning thoughtfully, he walked back to the livery barn.

  Not a horse remained. Bits of harness were dropped on the ground—a spare saddle. Everything showed evidence of a sudden and hasty departure.

  An hour later, having made the rounds, Finn McGraw returned to the saloon. He poured another glass of the Irish, lighted another Havana, but now he had a problem.