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

by Louis L'Amour

  Finally, he stumbled and stumbled again. Wearily, he turned to the horse and, brushing off the saddle, he mounted again. There was no longer any use in trying to follow the trail through the snow for it had become too deep, so he simply gave the gelding its head.

  It might have been an hour or even two hours later when the gelding stopped abruptly and awakened him from a doze. He peered through the still falling snow, and at first he saw nothing, but then a gate, and some distance beyond it, a cluster of buildings. Actually, they were not buildings, but merely roofs indicating the sod houses below them.

  As he got down from the saddle, his legs were so stiff he almost fell, but he managed to fumble the gate open and get his horse inside, and to fumble the gate shut again. He had farmed and ranched long enough to instinctively close all gates behind him.

  The house was built into the side of a low hill where drainage was good, and the door he faced was strongly built. There were two windows, both frosted over, but behind them was a faint glow of light. Hurley lifted his fist and dropped it against the door.

  The floor creaked inside and then the door opened, and a tall old man held a rifle in his hand. There was an oil lamp on the table, its wick turned low.

  “Can you put me up? I’m lost.”

  The old man’s eyes were cold and measuring. “Can’t turn a man away in a storm. Go put your horse up.”

  The door closed in his face, and Hurley turned away, blinking. There was a dug-out and sod-faced barn not far away and he went to it, kicked back the snow, and forced the door open. It cracked loudly, complaining against the rust and frost in its hinges, and he led the gelding inside and fumbled to light the lantern.

  It was a snug barn. The farmer in him appreciated its warmth, the solid construction of the stalls, the strongly made feed bin, and the mangers. He tied the gelding, stripped off saddle and bridle, and then with a handful of hay he wiped the snow and damp from the horse. After he had filled the manger with hay and put a little corn in the feed box, Hurley went to the house.

  The single room was square and well built. The plank floor was an unusual feature in a soddy, and it was fitted well. Clothing hung on a row of pegs in the wall, and against the end wall there were four bunks in two tiers, but only one held bedding. There was a glowing kitchen range, and on top of it a teakettle.

  The old man was very tall, his wide, thin shoulders slightly stooped, his face deeply lined under the high cheekbones. The furrows in his cheeks seemed to make him look even more grim and determined. He had started to warm some food.

  “No weather to travel.” Hurley cupped the coffee the old man offered him in his two hands. “Unexpected storm.”

  “That’s fool talk. This time of year a body can expect any kind of weather.”

  Hurley pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. The chair sat even on the floor, as did the table; both were well made. There was no arguing with the man’s comment, for Hurley knew it to be true. “My name is Hurley,” he said.

  The old man filled his own cup and glanced over the rim at Hurley. “I’m Benton,” he said. “What are you runnin’ from?”

  Hurley stiffened, half angry. He started to protest, but Benton ignored him.

  “No man would be caught this far from the settlements without an outfit unless he was runnin’ from something, or somebody.”

  Hurley did not reply. He accepted the offered stew sullenly. He did not like the implication that he was running away.

  “I shot a man back there.” He tried to make it sound bigger than it was. He wanted to impress this old man, to get under his hide.

  “If he’s dead, there’s no use to run. If he ain’t dead, you better improve your shootin’.”

  “He was a Talbot … with four brothers.”

  “I know those Talbots,” Benton replied. “They’re a pack of coyotes.”

  They ate in silence for several minutes. Hurley stared glumly at his coffee. Benton made it sound petty, like nothing at all. Hurley’s killing had made no impression, and the Talbots obviously did not impress him.

  “Did you leave anything back there?”

  “Yes,” Hurley admitted, “I left a good ranch, and a good crop of corn standing, and oats growing. A few head of cattle.”

  “Where you runnin’ to?”

  “I never gave it much thought,” Hurley admitted. “There were four of them, all rated tough men.”

  “Were you runnin’ when you came out here, too?”

  Hurley put down his knife and fork. “Now, see here—!”

  Benton never looked up. “A man starts runnin’, he doesn’t stop. If you run once, you’ll run again. Probably you never had as much in your life as you left back there, but you cut out and ran. All right … something else happens, you’ll run again.”

  Hurley’s features flushed with anger. Who did this old fool think he was? If it hadn’t been for the storm he would have taken his horse and ridden on. “There were four of them,” he repeated.

  “You said that before, and it don’t cut no ice. You didn’t even meet up with them. Take it from me, you get four men together and one of them has to take the lead, and nobody wants to be that one. I’d rather face four men anytime than one real tough man.”

  “Easy to talk.”

  Benton went to the stove for the coffeepot. “You get yourself a shotgun. You go back there and you walk right in on them. You don’t give them any chance to talk, you just tell them if they want trouble they’ve got it and to cut loose their wolf. They’ll back down so fast it will make your head swim.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then shoot ’em.”

  Hurley snorted contemptuously. This old man living out here like a hermit … what did he know?

  “A man who won’t fight for what’s his ain’t much account,” Benton said. “You take it from me.”

  Hurley started to rise from the table. He was mad clear through.

  Benton looked up, his hard eyes level and cold. “You set down, Mr. Hurley. Just set down. I ain’t about to be scared of no man who can be run clean out of the country by a passel of tinhorns.” The old man grinned sardonically. “Anyway, you ain’t about to leave a fireside for that storm out there.”

  Hurley sat down helpless and angry. Benton gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink, then, pouring water into a dishpan from the teakettle, he began washing the dishes.

  The warmth of the room, combined with his weariness, made Hurley nod. His head bobbed several times but he struggled to keep his eyes open. It was comfortable to relax after his long battle against the storm, and outside the sod house he could hear the wind blowing, enough to remind him that had he not found shelter he would have been dead by morning.

  Benton indicated a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau. “In that drawer there’s blankets. You take the other bottom bunk.”

  Benton was still puttering around when Hurley dropped off to sleep. Hurley’s last thought was: “At daybreak … when daybreak comes I’ll get out of here.”

  A blast of icy air awakened him and for an instant Hurley lay still, fighting to find himself, to realize where he was. The room was dark, swirling with blown snow, and nothing was familiar. Then it all came back to him, and he scrambled out of bed and slammed the door shut.

  “What happened?” he asked into the silence, but the silence remained unbroken. Hurley stood still, listening, and he heard no sound but the wind.

  Fumbling for his shirt, he found matches and lit one, then the lamp.

  Benton’s bunk was empty, but it had been slept in.

  Hastily, Hurley got into his pants and boots and picked up his coat and shrugged into it. He strapped on his gun belt and, opening a lantern that stood by the door, he lit it. For an instant, he hesitated.

  The Talbots might be out there. They might be … but his common sense told him they could not be. They would be holed up somewhere, waiting out the storm.

  Opening the door, Hurley stepped out into the dark
ness. The wind was blowing a gale, and he was almost stifled by a blast of wind that blew his breath right back down his throat. Ducking his head, he stepped into the storm and almost tripped over a body, half buried in swirling snow.

  Stooping, Hurley picked up the man and carried him to the door, which he opened with one hand, and stepped inside. Then he returned for the lantern.

  The body was that of Benton, and a glance told him the old man’s leg was broken.

  Stretching him out on the bunk, Hurley covered him with blankets and then went to the fire which had been banked against the long hours of night. Stirring the coals, he added fuel and built a roaring blaze to warm the room. He worked swiftly, knowing warmth would be most important to Benton now. Then he crossed the room to the injured man, slit his trouser leg, and pulled the leg into place. He was binding splints when Benton came out of it and tried to sit up.

  “Lie still … you’ve busted your leg.”

  Benton settled back, his face gray with pain. Hurley turned from him and, searching through a cabinet, found a bottle of whiskey. He poured a slug into a glass and handed it to Benton. “Do you good,” he said.

  “Mighty poor stuff to drink if you’re going to stay out in the cold, but once inside it warms you up.”

  Benton drank the whiskey and handed the glass back to Hurley. He settled back, looking around him. “Last thing I recall,” he said, “some noise out at the barn. I started out and slipped on the steps. I felt myself falling … that was all.”

  Hurley explained how he had awakened to find the door open and snow swirling into the room.

  Then Benton’s remark reached his consciousness. “You say you heard a noise at the barn?”

  Benton nodded. “You better go see what’s wrong.”

  The Talbots … they could be out there. They knew he would come for his horse, and the barn was warm. They could be out there waiting to shoot him down as he came in out of the morning. Or they might have made the noise on purpose to draw someone to the stable.

  “It can wait,” Hurley replied sullenly. “The door’s shut, I can see that.”

  He got down the coffee and made a pot. How long he had slept he had no idea, but he was fully awake now. If they were really there.

  Benton watched him with sardonic amusement as he made the coffee and brought a cup to the injured man. “Don’t know whether them Talbots are out there, or not,” he said. “You just got to wait and see, or you’ve got to go out there and find out. Puts a man in a jim-dandy fix.”

  “Shut up,” Hurley said irritably.

  He stood over the stove, feeding sticks into the flames and trying to think it out. Even if the storm let up a man would have no chance afoot, for aside from the distance and the cold his tracks would be laid out plain as print for anyone to follow.

  He got down the old man’s Spencer and checked the loads. Seven shots. He was a good shot with a rifle, and had hunted rabbits and squirrels back in Ohio. The distance to the barn was no more than sixty or seventy feet, point-blank range.

  After a while Hurley put the light out and stretched out on his bunk. He could hear deep breathing from Benton’s bed and decided the old man must be asleep.

  Hurley sat up so suddenly he bumped his head on the upper bunk. What about Benton?

  Somehow, in the excitement of finding the old man with a broken leg, and his worry about the Talbots being in the stable, he had given no thought to Benton.

  Hurley could not leave him. He would have to stay on, he would have to stay and face the Talbots whether they were in the stable or not.

  He had escaped death in the storm to trap himself here, a sitting duck to be killed whenever they came upon the place, and he had no chance.

  He got out of the bunk and walked to the window. The wind had died down, and here and there he could see a break in the clouds. The barn was a low, squat hovel almost buried in snow. No tracks led to or from it, but there need be no tracks now, for it had blown snow long after they would have entered.

  Angrily, he stared at the barn. And then he thought of the obvious idea. He had no business here at all. Suppose the old man had fallen when here alone? He would get along, wouldn’t he? Suppose no one had been here to carry Benton in out of the snow? He would be dead by now. By bringing him in, Hurley had repaid Benton for whatever shelter he had gotten here. From now on they were quits and he could leave.

  Only he could not go.

  He picked up the Spencer, then put it down. If somebody was inside, the length of the rifle would be more of a handicap. What he needed was his pistol.

  Hurley paused inside the door, taking a deep breath. Why was he going out there? Was he going to get his horse and run?

  He was no gunman, he was a farmer, and all he wanted to be was a farmer. Suddenly he knew why he was going out there, and it was very simple. He was going out to feed the stock, just as any farmer would do on any winter morning.

  His stock?

  For the first time he thought of his own stock. The cattle were loose to roam, and they were used to bad weather, and this snow wasn’t so deep but what they could scratch through it for grass, and there were several haystacks to which he always let down the bars when he left the ranch. The chance of their coming to the stacks was slight, for usually they stayed well out on the range, but if they did there was feed.

  Except for his horses, which were all in stalls, in the barn. He had told Anderson he was going into town, and Anderson would water them if he did not see Hurley return before dark. Anderson was a careful man, and he would realize at once that something had gone wrong, hearing the story as soon as anyone. He would care for the horses.

  Standing there in the door, Hurley remembered the house he had built with his own hands, the cattle he owned, the horses, fine stock they were, that he had left behind. Benton was right. He would never have as much again.

  Opening the door, he stepped outside into the cold.

  The sky was clearing off, and there was a red glow in the east that told him dawn was only minutes away. Facing the barn, Hurley strode toward it. Inside his coat he held his .44, the gun concealed, the hand warmed by contact with his body.

  At the barn door he stopped.

  There was snow on the door, snow around it. No sign that it had been disturbed since he left it the night before. Unlatching the door he swung it wide, and pulling the .44 from under his coat, he stepped quickly into the barn.

  It was, he thought as he took the step, a melodramatic, obvious thing to do. And perfectly foolish, of course, for as he entered the darkness of the barn, he was silhouetted against the snow outside.… He moved quickly to one side.

  Nothing happened.

  From stall to stall he went, and there was no one there. He put his pistol back in its holster and went about feeding and watering the stock. When he had finished, he came out and closed the door behind him. He stood for a minute in the still, cold air watching his breath, and he remembered how long he had been tortured by doubt, how long he had watched the barn, fearing the Talbots might be there.

  Was all fear like that? Was it all, or most of it, just imagination? Was Benton right, after all, and the way to meet fear was head-on?

  He walked back to the house. On the steps he paused to stomp the snow from his boots. As he did so the door swept open and Benton stood there with a leveled rifle.

  Only the rifle was held steady against the doorjamb, and it was pointed past his head at the ranch yard behind him.

  Hurley looked up and saw the grim look on the old man’s face, saw the old man had dragged himself from bed to cover him while he fed the stock. But he saw much more. Benton was looking past him and Benton said, “Hold it! Hold it right there!”

  Hurley knew death then. He knew the Talbots were behind him, and he knew there were four of them, and he knew he was fairly caught.

  But he was calm.

  That, of all things, was the most astonishing. There were, he knew in that moment, worse things than death, and ther
e were few things worse than fear itself.

  He turned slowly. “It’s my fight, Benton,” he said. “You get back in bed.”

  He stepped down off the step. He was scared. He was really scared, and yet somehow it was not as bad as he had expected. He looked at the four shivering men on their horses, and he smiled. “Are you boys looking for me?” he asked.

  They hesitated … they were cold and shaky from having spent the night in whatever pitiful shelter had been available out on the prairie. And this man had beaten Jake to the draw, and that bullet had gone dead center. It was one thing to chase down a running man, another to face a man who was ready to fight.

  “Jake Talbot was riding a horse stolen from me,” Hurley spoke loud in the still air. “When I asked him about it he went for his gun. He asked for it and he got it. Now if you boys have anything to say, have at it.”

  Joe Talbot looked him over more carefully. They had figured they had him on the run, but he did not look scared now. Not none at all.

  They could get him; they were four guns to one. Or two if that old man with the rifle declared himself in, but that fool Hurley, he might just get one of them, or even two while they were killing him. They had taken this ride to kill a man, not to be killed themselves, and each one had deep within him the feeling that the first one to pull a gun would be the one to die.

  Silence hung in the still, cold air. A horse stamped a hoof impatiently.

  “Jake must have bought that horse off a thief,” Joe Talbot said, at last. “We don’t know anything about it.”

  It was a retreat, and Hurley was wise enough to recognize it. He took a step nearer to them. “You have that horse back at my place Monday morning,” he said, “and we’ll call it quits. Understand?”

  They did not like it. They knew what was happening to them and they did not like it at all. After this there could be no more tough talk—folks simply wouldn’t pay any attention. They were being backed down and they knew it, but no one of them wanted to be the man to die.