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

by Louis L'Amour

  Dean picked up his pen again, frowning at the paper. “Why?”

  “Oh, just wondering. No reason. Nice-looking man. Do you suppose he’ll marry that Kastelle girl?”

  “Looks like it.” Dean scowled again. Somehow the idea didn’t appeal to him. “If he does he’ll control over half the range in Laird Valley.”

  Otis was restless. He got up. “Yes, you’re right about that. And if McInnis and Brewster decided to sell out, he would own it all.” He turned to go.

  “Wait a minute and I’ll walk over to the Longhorn with you.”

  Then Armstrong glanced at Otis. “Have you eaten?”

  Garfield Otis hesitated, then he turned and smiled. “Why, no. Come to think of it, I haven’t.”

  “Then let’s stop by Ma Boyle’s and eat before we have a drink.”

  They walked out together, and Armstrong locked the door after him. Otis started to speak, and Dean noticed it. “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking what an empire Laird Valley would be if one man owned it. The finest cattle range in the world, all hemmed in by mountains … like a world by itself !”

  Armstrong was thoughtful. “You know,” he said reflectively, “it would be one of the biggest cattle empires in the country. Probably the biggest.”

  Both men were silent on the way to Ma Boyle’s. When they entered, the long table, still loaded with food at one end, was almost empty. Harran, who owned the Emporium, was there, and Doc Finerty. So was Powis.

  Armstrong, pleased with himself at getting Otis to eat, sat down alongside Finerty. “How are you, Doc?” he asked. “Been out on the range?”

  “Yeah, down to the Mainses’ place. She’s ailing again.” He sawed at his steak, then looked up. “Seen that durned Mexie Roberts down there. He was coyotin’ down the range on that buckskin of his.”

  Marshal Pete Miller had come in. Miller was a lean, rangy man with a yellow mustache. A good officer in handling drunks and rowdy cowhands, he could do nothing about the rustlers. He overheard Doc’s comment.

  “Mexie, huh? He’s a bad ’un. Nobody ain’t never proved nothin’ on him, but I always figgered he dry-gulched old Jack Hendry. Remember that?”

  “I ought to!” Doc said. “Shot with a fifty-caliber Sharps! Never could rightly figure how that happened. No cover or tracks around there for almost a mile.”

  “A Sharps’ll carry that far,” Miller said. “Farther, maybe. Them’s a powerful shootin’ gun.”

  “Sure,” Doc agreed, “but who could hit a mark at that distance? That big old bullet’s dropping feet, not just inches. That would take some shooting … and he was drilled right through the heart.”

  “They believed it was a stray bullet, didn’t they?” Powis asked. “I remember that’s what they decided.”

  Garfield Otis listened thoughtfully. During the period in question he had lived in Laird, but his memory of the details of Jack Hendry’s death was sketchy at best. One factor in the idea interested him, however. He asked a question to which he knew the answer. “What became of Hendry’s ranch?”

  “Sam, that no-good son of his, sold it,” Harran said. “You recall that Sam Hendry? Probably drunk it all up by now. He sold out to Pierce Logan and took off.”

  “Best thing ever happened to this town!” Powis said. “Logan’s really done some good here. That livery stable and hotel never was any good until he bought ’em.”

  “That’s right,” Harran agreed. “The town’s at least got a hotel a woman can stop in now.”

  Otis walked to the Longhorn beside Armstrong, and they stood at the bar together and talked of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walt Whitman. Armstrong returned to his work, and Garfield Otis, fortified by a few extra dollars, proceeded to get very, very drunk.

  He had been drunk many times, but when he was drunk he often remembered things he had otherwise forgotten. Perhaps it was the subject of discussion at supper, perhaps it was only the liquor. More likely it was a combination of the two and Otis’s worry over Finn Mahone, for out of it all came a memory. At noon the next day, when he awakened in the haymow at the livery barn, he still remembered.

  At first he had believed it was a nightmare. He had been drunk that night, too. He had walked out on a grassy slope across the wash that ran along behind the livery stable and the Longhorn. Lying on the grass, he had fallen into a drunken stupor.

  Seemingly a long time after, he had opened his eyes and heard a mumble of voices, and then something that sounded like a blow. He had fallen asleep again, and when he awakened once more, he heard the sound of a shovel grating on gravel. Crawling closer, he had seen a big man digging in the earth, and nearby lay something that seemed to be a body.

  Frightened, he had stayed where he was until long after the man had moved away. Then he returned to his original bed and slept the night through. It wasn’t until afternoon the next day that he remembered, and then he shrugged it off as a dream. The thought returned now, and with it came another.

  For the first time, things were dovetailing in his mind. As the pieces began to fit together, realization swept over him, but no course of action seemed plain. His brain was muddled by liquor, and that dulled the knowledge his reason brought him, so he did nothing.

  Remy Kastelle awakened with a start. For an instant she stared around the unfamiliar room, trying to recall where she was and all that had happened.

  She bathed and combed her hair, and only then saw the folded paper thrust under the door. She crossed the room and picked it up.

  Had to take a run up to the next valley, be back about eight. There’s hot water over the fire, and coffee in the pot.

  When she had dressed, she poured a cup of coffee and went to the door.

  She stopped dead still, her heart beating heavily and her eyes wide with wonder.

  The stone cabin was on a ledge slightly above the valley, and she looked out across a valley of green, blowing grass toward a great, rust-red cliff scarred with white. It was crested with the deep green of cedars that at one place followed a ledge down across the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. Through the bottom of the valley ran Crystal Creek, silver and lovely under the bright morning sun. In all her life she had seen no place more beautiful than this.

  Looking down the rippling green of the grasslands, she saw the enormous stone towers that marked the entrance, a division in the wall that could have been scarcely more than fifty feet wide. From out on the porch, she could look up the valley toward where Crystal Creek cut through another entrance, this one at least two hundred yards across, looking into a still larger valley. Scattered white-face cattle grazed in the bottoms along the stream. Not the rawboned half-fed range cows she knew, but fat, heavy cattle.

  As she looked, she saw a horseman come through that upper opening, a big man riding at a fast canter on a black stallion. She watched him, and something stirred deeply within her. So much so that, disturbed, she wrenched her eyes away and walked back into the kitchen. Putting down her cup she went into the bedroom to get her hat. Only then did she see the picture.

  There were three, two of them landscapes. It was the third that caught her eyes. It was a portrait of a girl with soft dark eyes and dark hair, her face demure and lovely. Remy walked up to it, and stared thoughtfully.

  A sister? No. A wife? A sweetheart?

  She looked at the picture first because of curiosity, and then her eyes became calculating, as with true feminine instinct she gauged this woman’s beauty against her own. Was this the girl he loved? Was this the reason he preferred to live alone?

  Memory of the cup and the warm coffee returned to her. Was he alone?

  The sound of the arriving horse jerked her attention from the picture, and hat in hand she walked out to the porch.

  “Hi!” Mahone called. “Had some coffee?”

  Remy nodded. “If you’ll show me the way, I’ll start back now.”

  “Better let me show you the rest of the valley,” he suggested. “This is
beautiful, but the upper valley is even more so.”

  “No. I often stay away all night. Father’s used to it. But I always head back early. I stay at the Brewsters’ occasionally, and sometimes with the McInnis family. Once even at Judge Collins’s ranch.”

  She laughed. “The judge was really nervous. I’m afraid he thought I was compromised and that he might have to marry me!”

  Finn looked at her, his eyes curious. “You’re right. And I think you’d better be sure somebody knows where you are from now on.”

  “You think there’ll be trouble?”

  “Uh-huh.” He was deadly serious now. “That valley is going to be on fire from one end to the other in a few weeks. Maybe even a few days. You mark my words.”

  Remy walked down to the corral while he roped Roxie and saddled her. “You know what they think, don’t you?” she said.

  “That I’m a rustler?” he asked. “Sure. I know that. But look around … why would I rustle? And if I did, how would I get them in here?”

  “There isn’t any other way?”

  “Not from Laird. I’ve got all the cattle I want. As long as I keep the varmints down there’s nothing to worry me here.”

  “If they accuse you, and try to make trouble, what will you do?” Remy asked as they neared the slate slide again.

  He shrugged, and his face was grim. “What can I do? I’ll fight if I have to. I never rustled a cow in my life, and I’m not going to take any pushing around.”

  She looked at Finn thoughtfully. “Texas Dowd doesn’t think you’re a rustler, but he warned me to stay away from you, that you were dangerous … to women.”

  Finn Mahone’s head jerked around, and she could see the flare of anger in his eyes. “Oh, he did, did he? Yes, he would think that.”

  “Why did he say it?” she asked.

  “Ask him,” Finn replied bitterly. “He’ll tell you. But he’s wrong, and if he says that in public, I’ll kill him!”

  Remy tensed, and her eyes widened. There was something here she didn’t understand. “Shall I tell him that, too?”

  “Tell him anything you want to!” he snapped. “But tell him he’s hunting the wrong man and he’s a fool!”

  “If there’s trouble coming I’d like to think you were on our side,” Remy said.

  He looked at her cynically. “That cuts both ways, but Dowd wouldn’t stay with you if I was. Dowd wants to kill me, Remy.”

  “And what about you?”

  For a moment, he did not answer, then he said simply, “No, I don’t want to kill anybody.”

  He was silent, leading the way down to the slide. They made it now, by daylight, without mishap, but Remy kept her eyes away from the depths beyond the rim.

  “You said,” Finn suggested suddenly, “that you wanted me on your side. Who do you think is on the other side?”

  They were fording the Laird, and she looked around at him. “I don’t know,” she protested. “That’s what makes the whole situation so bad. Nobody seems to know.”

  She left him at the opening of the Notch and rode on toward home. She was well aware what the people of Laird would say if they knew she had spent the night in Crystal Valley. The ranch people who knew her would think little of it, for she came and went on the range as freely as a man. But, in town, those people would be another matter.

  She was halfway to the Lazy K ranch when she met Texas Dowd. He was wearing his flat-brimmed black hat and a gray shirt. With him were Stub and Roolin, two of the hands.

  “We was lookin’ for you, ma’am,” Dowd said. “All hell’s busted loose!”

  “What do you mean?” Remy reined the mare around, frightened at the grimness of their manner.

  “Somebody shot Abe McInnis last night. He went off up the valley, with that cowhand named Tony. When they didn’t get back, Roolin here, who was up that way waitin’ for him, rode up after him with Nick James, that hand of Logan’s.

  “They found ’em back in a narrow canyon near a brandin’ fire. Tony was dead, shot three times through the belly, once in the head. McInnis had been shot twice. Doc says he might live; he’s in purty bad shape.”

  “Who did it? Who could have done it?”

  “I don’t know who done it,” Roolin said suddenly, harshly, “but he took off through the mountains ridin’ a black stallion. There was another man or two with him. Abe evidently come up on ’em, an’ they went t’ shootin’.”

  “People in Laird’s some upset,” Dowd said. “Miller’s gone out that way to have a look. Abe’s got him a lot of friends around.”

  “I’d like to have a talk with Mahone!” Roolin said. “I got my own ideas about him!”

  She started to speak, then hesitated. “Just when did it happen?”

  “Near’s we can figger it was late yesterday afternoon,” Roolin offered. “Could have been evenin’, but probably was earlier.”

  That could have been before she met Mahone at the slide. Where had he been coming from then? He had offered no explanation. Was there a trail out through one of the narrow canyons that opened up near where she had first seen him? If there was, he could have ridden the distance without trouble.

  Brewster was at the ranch when she got there, accompanied by Dowd. Her father had put his book aside and his face was grave. He was a quiet man, but she knew from past experience that when stirred he was hard, bitterly hard, and a man who would fight to the last shell and the last drop of blood.

  Van Brewster was a burly man, deep-voiced and hard-bitten. His background was strictly pioneer. He had spent most of his life until now working in the plains country or the mountains, had soldiered, hunted, trapped, and fought Indians and rustlers.

  “Abe was my friend!” he was saying as she entered, “and I aim to get the man responsible!”

  Dowd drew back to one side of the room and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. His eyes went from Kastelle to Brewster. He said nothing, invited nothing. A few minutes later, horses were heard in the ranch yard. “That’ll be Logan an’ Collins,” Brewster said. “I told ’em we would meet here.”

  With them were Harran, the Emporium owner who ran a few cattle on the Collins range, and Dan Taggart, McInnis’s foreman. All were grim and hard-faced, and all carried guns. “Miller’s comin’,” Taggart stated. “He’s been on the range all day!”

  “Find anything?” Harran asked.

  “Some tracks,” Taggart said, “mighty big hoss tracks. He thinks they were the tracks o’ that stallion o’ Mahone’s!”

  Dowd pushed away from the wall, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Find ’em close to the body of either man? Or close to the fire?”

  “Wal, no,” Taggart admitted. “Not right close’t. They was under some trees, maybe fifty yards away. The horse could’ve been tied there, though.”

  “It could have,” Dowd admitted, “or he could have come up there and looked around and rode off, either before then, or later.”

  “If it was later, why didn’t he report it?” Taggart demanded.

  “Well,” Collins interrupted, “if you recall, he’s scarcely been welcomed around Laird. Probably didn’t figure it was any of his business! Or maybe he didn’t know what was goin’ on.”

  “You defendin’ him?” Taggart demanded. “You want t’ remember my boss is a-lyin’ home durned near dead!”

  “I do not want any accusations without proof !” Judge Collins said sharply. “Just because one man’s hurt and another’s dead, that doesn’t make Mahone guilty if he’s innocent!”

  “Well,” Taggart said dryly, “if I see Finn Mahone on that place again, I’m goin’ to shoot first and ask questions after!”

  Dowd smiled without humor. “Better make sure it’s first,” he said, “or you won’t live long. Finn Mahone’s no man to drag iron on unless you intend to kill him.”

  “You sound like you know him,” Brewster suggested.

  Footsteps sounded on the porch, and the door opened. Alcorn was standing there, and with him Ike Hibby, Montana Ker
r, and Ringer Cobb, all of Rawhide.

  “I do,” Dowd said, staring at the newcomers. “I know he’s a man you hadn’t better accuse of rustlin’ unless you’re ready to fill your hand.”

  Ringer Cobb was narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered; a build typical of the western rider. His guns were slung low and tied down. He glanced across at Dowd. “If you’re talkin’ about Mahone,” he said casually, “I’ll accuse him! All this talk of his bein’ fast with a gun doesn’t faze me none. I think he’s rustlin’. He or his boys.”

  Judge Collins studied Cobb and pulled at his mustache. “What do you mean … his boys?” he asked. “I’ve understood Mahone played a lone hand.”

  “So have we all,” Harran agreed, “but how do we know?”

  That was it, Remy admitted, how did they know? How about that cup on the table, and the still-warm fire? Where had Mahone gone when he rode off that morning?

  “How would he get cattle back into that country?” she asked. “Any of you ever tried to go through that Notch?”

  “He does it,” Cobb said. He looked at the girl, his eyes speculative. “An’ for all we know, there may be another route. Nobody ever gets back into that wild country below the Rimrock.”

  “Nobody but the hombre that killed Tony,” Taggart said grimly. “He was in there.”

  “All this is gettin’ us nowhere,” Brewster put in. “I’ve lost stock. It’s been taken off my range without me ever guessin’ until recent. I can’t stand to lose no more.”

  “I think it’s time we organized and did something,” Alcorn spoke up.

  “What?” Kastelle asked. He had been sitting back, idly shuffling cards and watching their faces as the men talked. His eyes returned several times to Pierce Logan. “What do you think, Logan?”

  “I agree,” Pierce said. He was immaculate today, perfectly groomed, and now his voice carried with a tone of decision, almost of command. “I think we should hire someone to handle this problem.” He paused. “A range detective, and one who is good with a gun.”