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

by Louis L'Amour

  Yet, what was Scott Roundy coming here for? This was far from his usual haunts. It made no kind of sense, and Todd Boysee had made it his business to know about men like Roundy. The man’s reputation was good. He had never killed but in performance of his duty, although he was always in the dangerous spots. A couple of times he had not even fired until shot at. A man who did that had a streak of weakness in him. Given a break, men would kill you sooner or later. You had to shoot first, and shoot to kill.

  “You still goin’ to meet the stage?” Jess asked.

  The word “still” angered Boysee. His cold blue eyes flashed. “I’ll meet it,” he said. He took up the bottle and poured a drink. It was the one drink he permitted himself.

  When he closed the door behind him he heard the buzz of excited voices. The fools! What did they know!

  Bitterly, he stared into the night and the snow. There should be an easier way to make a living, but how? It was all he knew. He was too old now to punch cows, and who would give him a job? He had no money, only the little house and the garden behind it. Had Mary lived, he might have broken away from this life. She had wanted him to leave it.

  What could he do, live on charity? Quitting was not an escape, anyway. The name would follow him, and they would still come hunting him, believing if they killed Todd Boysee it would make them feared. Little did they know.

  He had been a buffalo hunter at seventeen, a scout with the Army at nineteen, an express messenger riding shotgun on the stages at twenty. At twenty-five he became a town marshal, and he had followed it since, working a dozen towns before he had settled in Willowspring.

  Gifted with natural speed of hand and eye, he had improved by constant practice. For a time he savored the reputation it had given him, and then it had turned to ashes in his mouth after he killed a man he need not have killed. Finally, even that memory grew dim and he killed to live, to survive.

  Every cow outfit that came up the trail had at least one man who fancied himself a gunhand. You stopped them or they stopped you. It was too bad, he reflected again, that Mary had not lived. He was fifty-four now, but looked and acted ten years older.

  Why was Roundy coming here? What was there for him in Willowspring? It was foolish to think he was coming here to hunt him … but was it? Those fools back in the saloon believed it.

  He walked down the street, a tall, very straight man. In this town he was the Law. It was all he had left. He never touched a gun except against strangers. Here, all he ever needed to do was to speak, quietly, sternly. He took out his big silver watch. Mary had given it to him for his birthday. He had been pleased. He had always wanted a watch. The wind moaned cold when he stopped at the corner. The sky was a flat black, without stars. It would be bitter cold on the plains tonight.

  The stage was stopped when Armodel opened her eyes. Scott Roundy was gone, although she had not heard him go. Bell was sitting up, wide awake. “What is it?” she asked.

  “We’re lost. The stage has been circling.”

  “But how could they get off the trail?”

  “No fences, no telegraph posts, just a couple of wheel tracks, mostly grassed over. We’re the second stage since the Indians burned the White Creek Station, last summer.”

  Outside in the snow, Koons stood beside Avery and Roundy. “If you’re sure we passed Three Oaks,” Roundy said, “we’re south of the Wall.”

  “Didn’t know you knew this country. The Wall’s north of the trail, but circlin’ wide as we done we’d have hit it.”

  “So we’re south.” Roundy was sure. “Bear south some more to North Fork Canyon.”

  “Don’t know the place,” Koons said.

  “I’ll find it.” Roundy suggested to Avery, “We go ahead and let Koons line up on us. That would keep us in a straight line.”

  It had been a long time. The wind moaned along the plains, stirring snow from the grass … this place he would not forget, he had never forgotten, no matter how many the years. His name was different, but he was the same.

  “And when we get there?”

  “A stone cabin and fuel. At least, there was fifteen years ago, and a stone cabin doesn’t rot. Anyway, the place is sheltered.”

  Koons turned. “All right,” he said.

  The stage lurched into motion and headed south, away from the wind. When they had been proceeding slowly for almost an hour the ground suddenly began to slope away, and after a while Roundy did not go on ahead but stood and waited, and when Avery came up they guided the coach into the arroyo.

  The stage bumped along over frozen earth and occasional rocks, and then a black cliff reared before them, and against the face they could see the rock house. It was barely visible under the overhang.

  “Bring the mules inside!” Roundy yelled. “There’s a cave back of the house and room enough!”

  The first mule balked at the dark opening, but when it finally entered the rest followed. Koons stabled them at a tie-pole in the cave and returned to find a fire going in the house. Roundy was kneeling beside it, and Armodel Chase stood beside him.

  Koons stared at Roundy curiously. “Never knowed of this place,” he said.

  Roundy nodded at the bottom bunk in the tier of two. “I was born in that bed,” he said, “in gold rush days.”

  Armodel stared at him, and looked again at the bunk. Her eyes went around the bare room. There were two tiers of beds, a table, two benches, a chair. There was an iron pot beside the fireplace. Her mind returned to her own comfortable home. Hers no more.

  “My mother is buried in the trees across the creek,” he said. “She only lived a few days.”

  Koons brought more fuel and added it, stick by stick, to the fire. “All Injun country then,” he said. “Must have been.”

  “It was during a lull in an attack when I was born,” Roundy said.

  “Wagon broke down up on the trail. The rest of them were gold-hungry and anxious. Only one wagon would stay with us.”

  Avery brought coffee from the stage and they started getting water hot over the fire. Gagnon was not talking, but Bell was curious. It was like so many tales he had heard, yet he never tired of listening. He probably had heard more Western history in his years of traveling than any man alive, and sometimes he passed the stories on.

  “What happened?” Armodel searched the quiet face, thinking of how his mother must have felt, dying here, never knowing if her child would live, never knowing if he would grow up to become a man. Suddenly, she knew that gunfighter or not, his mother would have been proud.

  “My father and the people who stayed,” he said, “they started Willowspring.”

  Koons shifted his feet. “Then”—he took his pipe from his mouth, suddenly disturbed—“you must be Clete Ryan’s nephew.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Peg Fulton looked across the fire at Koons, and she started to speak, then stopped, looking helpless. Koons got up and walked toward the back of the cave. Peg would know, of course. Peg was a Gillis, and they had lived neighbors to the Ryans. Gillis worked for Clete, time to time, for Dave, too, before Mary got married and Dave went east.

  He did not remember Roundy, but he remembered the story. The boy’s father had been an Army officer, and he had taken the boy to Fort Brown, Texas. After that they never heard of them again.

  The man with the Spencer rifle brought in an armful of fuel from outside and sat down near the fire, keeping back a little, and giving the others room. Despite the cold, the stone cabin was tight and the place was warming up.

  Peg moved around and took over the coffee making from Avery. Koons watched her, his eyes angry. This was a good girl. What else could she have done when that gambler left her? People had talked … thought the worst of her long ago.

  “Warmin’ up, Peg,” he said suddenly. “Can I take your coat?”

  She looked up, surprise changing to a softness and warmth. “Thank you, Alec,” she said. “I was warm.”

  Koons took the coat into the shadows. He was surpri
sed to feel himself blushing. He had not blushed in years. When he came back to the fire, Gagnon had a faintly knowing smile on his face. Koons felt a sudden murderous fury. Say something, he said under his breath. Make one snide remark and I’ll hurt you so badly—!

  The coffee was hot, and Armodel was sitting close beside Scott Roundy. Koons squatted down near Peg Fulton and accepted the cup she handed him. He could hear his mules stomping in the cave. They were eating their oats from the feed bags, and already content. It didn’t take much for a mule to be happy … or a man either, come to that.

  An hour later all were fast asleep except for Alec Koons and Peg. He sat up, tending the fire, and she tossed and turned, finally giving in to wakefulness. He smiled at her shyly, wanting to speak but feeling clumsy and tongue-tied. Finally he cleared his throat and, without looking up from the fire, spoke.

  “Peg,” he said, “four years ago I came nigh to askin’ you, but I figured I was too old for you. I’m older now, but … well, so are you.

  “Will you marry me?” He looked up at her, finally, seeking out her eyes in the firelight. She reached out her hand and took his and held it tightly.

  “Of course, Alec. I wanted you to ask me, but I thought you never saw me like that. I’d be proud to marry you.”

  She fell asleep not a half hour later, comfortably in his arms.

  The stage to Willowspring swung into the street at a spanking trot, almost twelve hours late. The wind was down and the sun was out and the little snow was going fast … a crowd waited for the stage.

  Koons swung his mules up to the stage station and started to get down. Todd Boysee stood off to one side, straight and tall, aloof and lonely in his threadbare black coat.

  Koons started to swing down—he wanted to get to Todd first—but something made him look up. The man with the Spencer rifle was sitting unmoved atop the stage. He was half behind Armodel Chase’s trunk, and he had his rifle in his hands. He was smiling.

  Scott Roundy got down from the stage and handed Armodel to the ground. Roundy felt rather than saw the crowd draw back, and he looked up to see Todd Boysee facing him.

  “Roundy!” Boysee’s voice was stern. “You huntin’ me?”

  Scott took a step forward, sensing the old man’s feelings. He put up a hand. “No, I—”

  Todd Boysee’s hand dropped to his gun. Scott distinctly heard his palm slap the walnut butt.

  A dull boom slammed against the false-fronted buildings, and Todd Boysee felt the bullet that would kill him. He took a step back—Scott Roundy had not drawn!

  Boysee felt a sickness in his stomach. Something had hit him hard in the chest, and the boom was heavy in his ears. Then he saw Scott Roundy was shooting, but not at him. Boysee was on the ground, holding his fire. His eyes found focus.

  Over the top of a trunk was the muzzle of a Spencer, and behind it and left of the gun a white spot of brow, eye, and a hat. Todd Boysee fired, and there was a spot over the eye and red on the face. Roundy fired again and then the man with the Spencer rifle humped up and rolled over, falling flat and dead into the dust alongside the stage.

  Todd Boysee was down and dying. He was no fool. He had shot enough men and seen enough of them shot. “Who … who was it?”

  “Johnny Cole,” a man from the crowd said. “I guess he come to get you for killin’ Lew.”

  “Boysee.” Roundy got his arm under the old man’s shoulders. “I was huntin’ you. You’re my uncle. My mother was Mary Ryan’s sister.”

  Todd Boysee was feeling better than he had expected. He always figured to die alone. With Mary’s nephew here it was different, somehow. There was a girl beside him.… Why, she even looked like Mary. A sight like her, in fact.

  His eyes shifted to the girl and his hand gripped her wrist. “You love this boy?” His mind was slipping, he was backing down a dark corridor whose walls he couldn’t see. “You stick with him, no matter what. It’s all he’ll ever have, what you can give him.”

  Scott Roundy moved back from the walk and stood near Armodel. Todd Boysee had been carried away. The blood was on the boardwalk.

  “Where were you goin’?” He turned to look into her eyes.

  “Just … west.”

  “Is this far enough?” he asked.

  “It has to be.… He gave me a job to do.”

  “I was going to ask you,” he said, “only—”

  “I know,” she said quietly, and she did know. She knew what she had read in the eyes of a lonely old man, and what had been in her heart since the night by the fire. There would be times of gladness and times of sorrow, there would be fear, doubt, and worry … but no matter what, they would not be alone, not ever again.

  Let the Cards Decide

  Where the big drops fell, we had placed a wooden bucket retrieved from a corner of the ancient log shack. The long, earth-floored one-room cabin smelled of wet clothing, wood smoke, and the dampness brought on by unceasing rain. Yet there was fuel enough, and the fire blazed bright on the hearth, slowly dispelling the dampness and bringing an air of warmth and comfort to the cheerless room.

  Seven of us were there. Haven, who had driven the stage; Rock Wilson, a mine boss from Hangtown; Henry, the Cherokee Strip outlaw; a slender man with light brown hair, a sallow face, and cold eyes whom I did not at first know; the couple across the room; and myself.

  Six men and one woman—a girl.

  She might have been eighteen or a year older, and she was one of those girls born to rare beauty. She was slim, yet perfectly shaped, and when she moved it was to unheard music, and when she smiled, it was for you alone, and with each smile she seemed to give you something intimate, something personal. How she had come to be here with this man we all knew. We knew, for he was a man who talked much and talked loud. From the first, I’d felt sorry for her, and admired her for her quiet dignity and poise.

  She was to become his wife. She was one of a number of girls and women who had come west to find husbands, although why this girl should have been among them I could not guess. She was a girl born for wealth and comfort, and her every word and movement spoke of breeding and culture. Yet here she was, and somehow she had gotten into the hands of Sam Tallman.

  He was a big fellow, wide of shoulder and girth, with big hands and an aggressive manner. Not unhandsome in a bold way, he could appear gentle and thoughtful when it suited him, but it was no part of the man and strictly a pose. He was all the girl was not: rough, unclean, and too frank in his way of talking to strangers of his personal affairs.

  That Carol Houston was becoming disillusioned was obvious. That is, if there had been any illusions to start. From time to time she gave him sharp, inquiring glances, the sort one might direct at an obnoxious stranger. And she was increasingly uneasy.

  The stage was headed north and was to have dropped several of us here to meet another stage heading west. We were going to be a day late, however, for our coach had overturned three miles back on the muddy trail.

  Bruised and shaken, we had righted the stage in the driving rain and had managed to get on as far as the shack. As we could not continue through the night, and this place was at least warm and dry, we made the best of it.

  There seemed no end to the rain, and in the few, momentary lulls we could hear the measured fall of drops into the bucket, which would soon be full.

  Now in any such place there comes a time when conversation slowly dies. The usual things have been said, the storm discussed and compared to other storms, the accident bewailed, and the duration of our stay surmised. We had exchanged destinations and told of our past lives, and all with no more than the usual amount of lying.

  Dutch Henry produced some coffee, and I, ransacking the dismal depths of the farther cabin corners, a pot and cups. So the good, rich smell of coffee permeated the room with its friendly sense of well-being and comfort.

  My name, it might be added, is Henry Duval. Born on Martinique, that distant and so lovely island noted for explosive mountains and women. My fami
ly had been old, respected, and until it came to me, of some wealth. By profession I had been a gambler.

  This was, for a period of nearly a century, the usual profession of a young man of family but no means. Yet from gambling I had turned to the profession of arms, or rather, I had divided my time between them. The riverboats started me on the first, and the revolutions and wars of freedom in Latin America on the second. Now, at thirty-five, I was no longer occupied with either of these, but had succeeded in building a small fortune of my own in handling mining properties.

  But let us be honest. During my gambling days I had, on occasion, shall we say, encouraged the odds? An intelligent man with a knowledge of and memory for cards, and some knowledge of people, can usually win, and honestly—when the cards run with him—but of course, one must have the cards. So when they failed to come of themselves, sometimes I did, as I have said, encourage them a bit.

  Haven, the stage driver, I knew slightly. He was a solid, dependable man, both honest and fearless. Rock Wilson was of the same order, and both were of the best class of those strong, brave, and often uneducated men who built the West. Both had followed the boom towns—as I once had.

  Dutch Henry? You may have heard of him. They hanged him finally, I believe. He was, as I have said, an outlaw. He stole horses, and cattle, and at times robbed banks or stages, but all without malice and without unnecessary shooting. And he was a man of rugged good nature who might steal a hundred today and give it away tomorrow.

  The sallow-faced man introduced himself. His accent was that of the deep South. “My given name is John. I once followed the practice of medicine.” He coughed into a soiled handkerchief, a deep rattling tubercular cough. “But my ahh … condition made that an irony I could no longer endure.” He brushed a speck of lint from the frayed cuff of his faded frock coat. “I am now a gentleman of fortune, whatever that may mean.”