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

by Louis L'Amour

  Mahone shrugged. “Neither Sonntag nor Frank Salter have shown up. Sonntag is plenty bad, and Salter is a fit partner for him. The two of them are poison, and while they may have left the range, I doubt it. They’ll stick around.”

  Finn Mahone’s eyes had been straying toward the ranch house. Finally, he shoved his hat back on his head, and his face flushed as he suggested, “I expect I’d better go up and tell Frenchy what happened.”

  Dowd chuckled. “Sure. You might tell Remy, too!”

  As Finn trotted the stallion toward the house, he heard them both laughing at him, and he grinned in spite of himself.

  Remy Kastelle came out the door as he mounted the steps. “Finn! Oh, it’s you! And Tex is back! What happened?”

  Frenchy had come into the doorway behind her, and Mahone explained the situation as quickly as possible.

  It was Remy who repeated the question. “What about Sonntag?”

  “Neither he nor Salter have been heard from, but they may show up yet. I’ve got to get back to my place and move some cattle. Ed Wheeling over at Rico wants to buy some stock from me.”

  Hours later, on the road back to Crystal Valley, Finn Mahone rode swiftly. Nick James had left that morning and was to meet him at the Notch, and they would go on to the valley together. With James and Shoshone Charlie, he could manage the drive all right. Dowd had offered him a hand, but Mahone refused.

  He said nothing to them of his worries, but he had his own ideas about what had become of Byrn Sonntag. The big redheaded gunman was probably in Rico. It would be like him to go there, for he knew the place and they knew him. Jim Hoff, the buyer of stolen cattle, was there; Sonntag would need money and he could sell some of the rustled cattle to Hoff.

  The following day, Finn Mahone pushed his own herd of cattle through the upper canyon of the Laird. He had his sale to make, and he had the sense that the last act of the Laird Valley cattle war was going to play itself out in Rico.

  Finn knew there would be rustling and robbery in the Laird Valley as long as Byrn Sonntag and Frank Salter were at large. Now that he was no longer being set up to be a scapegoat, the rustlers would have no compunction about taking his cattle along with those of everyone else. Texas Dowd had said little, but Mahone knew that he felt the same.

  Nick James rode by. Mopping sweat and dust from his brow, he grinned at Mahone. The white-faced cattle moved briskly ahead, bawling and frisking, occasionally stopping to crop disinterestedly at the sparse desert growth. Soon they were mounting the trail to the plateau on which Rico stood.

  The scattered shacks that lay around Rico appeared, and then the stockyards. A couple of hands rode up and helped them to corral the stock. Finn left Shoshone Charlie and Nick James to drown their thirst, and headed for the Gold Spike to see Wheeling.

  When the stock buyer saw him, he almost dropped his glass. “Mahone, you’d better be careful. Sonntag is in town selling cattle. If he sees you around, he’ll think you’ve come after him.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the man,” Mahone commented, grimly.

  “Well, that Salter is with him, and he’s mean as a burro jack and that isn’t all! Frenchy Kastelle hit town about noon, rode over from the ranch with his daughter and Texas Dowd. They’re trying to figure out where their missing stock got to. Jim Hoff saw them, and I know he’s said something to Sonntag.”

  Finn Mahone thought quickly. Byrn Sonntag would be trying to cash in on Logan’s rustling scheme. He and Salter had hundreds, if not thousands, of stolen cattle to sell and that meant the stakes were high enough to kill for. If the Kastelle outfit was in town asking questions, there was a good chance they would run afoul of Sonntag and Salter. No doubt Remy’s father was as fast as Carson had assured them, and surely Texas Dowd was as tough as they came, but in a match with a gunman of Sonntag’s caliber anyone involved was bound to get hurt.

  Mahone turned and walked swiftly to the door. He glanced sharply up and down the street, then pushed outside. Almost the first man he saw was Jim Hoff. The fat, sloppy buyer was coming up the boardwalk toward him, but when he saw Finn, he started to cross the street. “Hoff ! Hold on a minute!”

  Reluctantly, the man stopped, staring uneasily at Finn. “Where’s Sonntag? Tell me, and quick!”

  “I don’t know,” Hoff protested.

  Mahone did not wait. He slapped the buyer of stolen stock across the mouth, hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Next time you get a pistol barrel! Where is he?”

  “Down to his shack! An’ I hope he kills you!” Hoff pointed farther down the street to a tarpaper cabin half concealed by brush.

  Shoshone Charlie had come out of the saloon. “Charlie,” Finn said, “keep your eye on this hombre. If he makes a move toward a gun or to communicate with anybody, skin him alive.”

  The Indian moved nearer Hoff, and the cattle buyer backed away. The Indian might not be young, but he was wiry and tough, and his knife was good steel.

  Nick James moved up. “What is it, Boss?”

  “Sonntag and me, when I find him!”

  Door by door, Finn worked down the street. Sonntag might be at the shack, but he might not be. Mahone also went down the street, only a glance was needed to tell him who was in each place he visited. When he stopped at the stock corrals, and stared down the road, he could see the dark frame shack where Sonntag lived when in Rico. It was an ugly place to approach.

  The square little house stood on a mesquite-dotted lot with nothing near it but the crowded corrals and a small stable, not unlike the flimsy structure at the Brewster ranch.

  The road approaching it was flat and offered no cover. He could wait until Sonntag started for town, but Finn was in no mood for waiting now. If Kastelle and Remy were in town there was every chance of them getting hurt, for the town was small, and Sonntag was not about to be thwarted at the last minute.

  Finn stepped out from the corrals and started down the path, walking fast.

  Ed Wheeling walked to the door of the Gold Spike and stared after Mahone, then stepped out on the boardwalk. Slowly, the word had swept the town. Finn Mahone was going after Sonntag and Salter.

  Remy was in the general store when she heard it, and she straightened, feeling the blood drain from her face. She turned and started for the door. Her father, seeing her go, was startled by her face. He followed swiftly down the road.

  The door of the square house opened, and Byrn Sonntag stepped out.

  He had pulled the door closed behind him before he saw Finn Mahone. He squared around, staring at him to make sure he saw aright. Then, stepping carefully, he started toward him.

  Neither man spoke.

  Seventy feet apart, they halted, as at a signal. Finn Mahone felt a queer leaping excitement within him as he stared across the hot stretch of desert at Byrn Sonntag. Ever since he could recall wearing a gun, he seemed to have been hearing of Sonntag, and always his name had been spoken in awe.

  Standing there, his features were frozen and hard now, and his eyes seemed to blaze with a white light.

  Sweat trickled down Mahone’s cheek. He could smell the sage, and the tarlike smell of creosote bush. The sun was very warm and the air was still. Somewhere, far off, a train whistled.

  “Heard you’re sellin’ cattle, Sonntag.”

  “Just a few critters, here an’ there.”

  “We may have to skin a few, check the brands.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m goin’ to kill you, Mahone.”

  Finn Mahone drew a deep breath. There was no way around this. “All right, when that train whistles again, Sonntag, you can have it.”

  They waited, and the silence hung heavy in the desert air. Salter was out there somewhere but Finn knew he couldn’t fight both of them, so he put the old guerrilla out of his mind and focused on Sonntag. Sweat trickled down Mahone’s brow, and he felt it along his body under his shirt, and then he saw the big gunman drop into a half crouch, his body tense with listening. When the whistle came, both men moved. In a blur o
f blinding speed, Finn Mahone saw Sonntag’s gun sweeping up, saw flame stab toward him, and felt a hammer blow in his stomach, but his own gun was belching fire, and he was walking toward Sonntag, hammering bullets into the big redhead, one after another.

  He went to his knees, and sweat came up into his face, and then his face was in the sand, and he looked up, still clutching his guns, then he dug his elbows into the sand, and dragged himself nearer.

  Somewhere through the red haze before him he could hear the low bitter cursing of Sonntag, and he fired at the sound. The voice caught, and gagged, and then Finn got his feet under him, and swayed erect only to have his knees crumple under him. In a sitting position, he could see Sonntag down, but the man was not finished. Mahone triggered his gun, but it clicked on an empty chamber.

  Sonntag fired, and the bullet plucked at Finn’s trouser leg. Finn dug shells from his belt and began to feed them into the chambers of his sixgun. Off to his left there was a rattle of pistol fire and the dull boom of the Spencer that Frank Salter carried. Someone was helping Mahone out.

  Sonntag was getting up, his thick shirt heavy with blood, his face half shot away. What enormous vitality forced the man to his feet, Mahone could never imagine, but there he was, big as a barn, seemingly indestructible.

  Mahone got to his feet, and twenty feet apart they stared at each other. Finn brought his gun up slowly.

  “You’re a good … man, Mahone,” Sonntag said, “but I’ll kill you an’ live to spit on your grave!”

  His own gun swung up swiftly, and blasted with flame, but the shot went wild, and Finn Mahone fired three times, slowly, methodically.

  Sonntag staggered, and started to fall, then pitched over on his face. He squeezed off another shot, but it plowed a furrow in the sand.

  It was awfully hot. Finn stared down at the fallen man, and felt his own gun slip from his fingers. He started to stoop to retrieve it, and the next thing he knew was the sound of singing in a low, lovely voice.

  His lids fluttered back and he was lying on his back and Remy was bending over him. The singing stopped. “Oh, you’re awake? Don’t try to talk now, you must rest.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A week tomorrow.”

  “A week? What happened to Sonntag?”

  “He’s dead.…”

  “And Salter?”

  “When you’re better you can thank my father.”

  “I thought Sonntag was going to kill me,” Finn said thoughtfully.

  “Don’t think about it now,” Remy advised. “You’ll be well soon.”

  He caught her hand. “I’ll be going back to the valley, then. It’s never been the same since that morning when you were waiting on the steps for me. I think you should come back, and stay.”

  “Why not?” Remy wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s probably the only way I’ll ever get that black stallion!”

  He caught her with his good arm and pulled her close. “Wait! That’s not the way a wounded man should act!” she protested.

  Then their lips met, and she protested no longer.

  The Moon of the Trees Broken by Snow

  Cold blew the winds along the canyon, moaning in the cedars, whining softly where the sagebrush grew. Their fire was small, and they huddled close, the firelight playing shadow games on the walls, the walls their grandfather’s father built when he moved from the pit house atop the mesa to the great arch of the shallow cave.

  “We must go,” the boy said, “there is no more wood for burning, and the strength is gone from the earth. Our crops are thin, and when the snows have gone, the wild ones will come again, and they will kill us.”

  “It is so,” his mother agreed. “One by one the others fled, and we are not enough to keep open the ditches that water our fields, nor to defend against the wild ones.”

  “Where will we go?” Small Sister asked.

  They avoided looking at each other, their eyes hollow with fear, for they knew not where to go. Drought lay heavy upon the land, and from north, south, east, and west others had come seeking, no place seeming better than another. Was it not better to die here, where they had lived?

  The boy was gaunt for each day he hunted farther afield and each day found less to hunt. Small Sister and his mother gathered brush or looted timbers from abandoned dwellings to keep their fires alight.

  The Old One stirred and mumbled. “In my sleep I saw them,” he muttered, “strange men sitting upon strange beasts.”

  “He is old,” their mother said. “His thoughts wander.”

  How old he was they did not know. He had come out of the desert and they cared for him. None knew what manner of man he was, but it was said he talked to gods, and they with him.

  “Strange men,” he said, “with robes that glisten.”

  “How many men?” The boy asked without curiosity but because he knew that to live, an old one must be listened to and questioned sometimes.

  “Three,” the Old One said, “no more.”

  Firelight flickered on the parchment of his ancient face. “Sitting upon beasts,” he repeated.

  Sitting upon? What manner of beast? And why sit upon them? The boy went to a corner for an old timber. A hundred years ago it had been a tree; then part of a roof; now it was fuel.

  They must leave or die, and it was better to die while doing than sitting. There was no corn left in the storage place. Even the rats were gone.

  “When the light comes,” the boy said, “we will go.”

  “What of the Old One? His limbs are weak.”

  “So are we all,” the boy said. “Let him walk as far as he may.”

  “They followed the path,” the Old One said, “a path where there was no path. They went where the light was.”

  On the third day their water was gone, but the boy knew of a seep. At the foot of the rocks he dug into the sand. When the sand grew damp, they held it against their brows, liking its coolness. Water seeped into the hollow, and one by one they drank.

  They ate of the corn they carried, but some they must not eat. It would be seed for planting in the new place—if they found it.

  During the night snow fell. They filled a water sack made of skin and started on.

  With the morning the snow vanished. Here and there a few seeds still clung to the brush. Under an ironwood they rested, picking seed from the ground. They could be parched and eaten or ground into pinole. As they walked they did not cease from looking, and the Old One found many seeds, although his eyes were bad.

  “Where do we go?” Small Sister asked.

  “We go,” the boy replied, but inside he felt cold shivers as when one eats too much of the prickly-pear fruit. He did not know where they went, and he was much afraid.

  On the ninth day they ate the last of their corn but for that which must be kept for seed. Twice the boy snared ground squirrels, and three times he killed lizards. One day they stopped at a spring, gathering roots of a kind of wild potato that the people to the south called iikof. His mother and the Old One dug them from the flat below the spring.

  Day after day they plodded onward, and the cold grew. It snowed again, and this time it did not go away. The Old One lagged farther and farther behind, and each day it took him longer to reach the fire.

  The boy did not meet their eyes now, for they looked to him, and he had nothing to promise.

  “There was a path of light,” the Old One muttered. “They followed the path.”

  He drew his worn blanket about his thin shoulders. “It is the Moon of the Limbs of Trees Broken by Snow,” he whispered, “that was the time.”

  “What time, Old One?” The boy tried to be patient.

  “The time of the path. They followed the path.”

  “We have seen no path, Old One.”

  “The path was light. No man had walked where the path lay.”

  “Why, then, did they follow? Were they fools?”

  “They followed the path because they heard and they believed.”


  “Heard what? Believed in what?”

  “I do not know. It came while I slept. I do not know what they believed, only that they believed.”

  “I believe we are lost,” Small Sister said.

  The mother looked to the boy. He was the man, although but a small man, and alone. “In the morning we will go on,” he said.

  The Old One arose. “Come,” he said. Wondering, the boy followed.

  Out in the night they went, stopping where no firelight was. The Old One lifted his staff. “There!” he said. “There lies the path!”

  “I see no path,” the boy said, “only a star.”

  “The star is the path,” the Old One said, “if you believe.”

  It was a bright star, hanging in the southern sky. The boy looked at it, and his lips trembled. He had but twelve summers. Yet he was the man, and he was afraid.

  “The star is the path,” the Old One said.

  “How can one believe in a star?” the boy protested.

  “You do not have to believe in the star. They traveled for a reason. We travel for another. But you can believe in yourself, believe in the good you would do. The men of the star were long ago and not like us. It was only a dream.”

  The Old One went back to the fire and left the boy alone. They trusted him, and he did not trust himself. They had faith, and he had none. He led them into a wilderness—to what?

  He had wandered, hoping. He had found nothing. He had longed, but the longing was empty. He found no place for planting, no food nor fuel.

  He looked again. Was not that one star brighter than all the rest? Or did he only believe it so?

  The Old One had said, “They followed a star.”

  He looked at the star. Then stepping back of a tall spear of yucca, he looked across it at the star. Then breaking off another spear, he set it in the sand and lined it up on the star so he would know the direction of the star when dawn came.

  To lead them, he must believe. He would believe in the star.

  When morning came, they took up their packs. Only the Old One sat withdrawn, unmoving. “It is enough,” he said. “I can go no farther.”