Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Wal,” Stretch said positively, “he’s sure goin’ t’ have thet place! The will done said if’n any of his relatives showed up they’d have t’ live on the place thirty days o’ this year t’ claim it!”

  “It would appear,” Van Brady said, “that my staying there would be impractical. From what you say I doubt if Mr. Ritter would allow it.”

  Ward grinned, faint humor in his eyes. “He sure wouldn’t! Not even a he schoolma’am!” The contempt in his voice was undisguised.

  Claire’s face flushed with embarrassment for the teacher, and Brady looked up. “I take it you are unaccustomed to male teachers,” he said politely. “There are many in the East. I believe this would be a good country for some of them.”

  He looked over at Ewing. “Have you a conveyance? A horse or something that would get me down to my school? I’d like to look it over.”

  “Now ain’t thet pecoolyar!” Magoon looked up, a warm smile illuminating his face. “I was jest thinkin’ yuh’d be wantin’ a hoss! We got a yaller boss out here I’m sure would be jest the thing for yuh!”

  Claire sat bolt upright and she started to speak, but before she could utter her protest, Van Brady smiled. “Why, how nice, Mr. Magoon! Thank you very much!”

  When Brady followed Magoon from the room Claire started to her feet. “Father!” she protested. “Are you going to let them put that boy on that buckskin devil?”

  “Now, Claire, don’t fret yourself!” Ewing said, grinning. “He won’t do no such thing! Buck will toss him afore he gits settled in the saddle! The fall won’t hurt him none. Let the boys git it out of their system. Besides,” he added glumly, “I ain’t so sure I like no he schoolma’am m’self!”

  Claire Ewing got to her feet and started for the door, the others trooping expectantly behind.

  Magoon already had a saddle on the lazy-looking buckskin, and was cinching it tight, plenty tight, and talking to Brady. Curly Ward was standing nearby, lighting a smoke and grinning with anticipation. Web Fancher and the other hands gathered around, striving to look innocent.

  “He’s a right nice hoss,” Stretch said sorrowfully, “a gentle hoss. I reckon the boss might let yuh ride him all the time.”

  “Better put on these spurs,” he added. “He’s kind o’ lazy an’ won’t really git goin’ less yuh nudge him right sharp.”

  Van Brady sat down and fumbled with the spurs until Stretch knelt beside him and helped put them on. Then Van got up. The yellow horse looked around, speculative curiosity on his face, a face almost as sad and woebegone as Magoon’s.

  Brady put a tentative foot in the stirrup, then swung his leg over the buckskin. Stretch Magoon stepped back warily, putting distance between himself and the horse. “Yuh’ll have t’ gouge him purty stiff,” he called. “He’s sho nuff lazy!”

  Van Brady touched the yellow horse with the spurs, then at no movement, he jerked his heels out and jammed both spurs into the buckskin’s flanks.

  The buckskin exploded like a ton of dynamite. With one catlike leap, he sprang forward and dug in his forefeet. The he schoolma’am shot forward, but somehow barely missed losing his seat, then the yellow horse swapped ends three times so fast he was merely a blur of movement, and then he began to buck like a fiend out of hell.

  Brady lost a stirrup, and swung clear around until he was facing the buckskin’s rear, clawing madly for the saddle horn. But when the horse swapped ends again, he miraculously flopped back into the saddle. Three times the buckskin sunfished madly, and then went across the ranch yard swapping ends and buck jumping until every bone in Brady’s body was wracked. Yet somehow the he schoolma’am held on.

  Then the equine cyclone went completely berserk. He leaped wildly toward the morning clouds, then charged for the corral fence, but just as he swung broadside to it the schoolma’am lost a stirrup! His hard hat was gone, his coat tails, flying in the wind, but he was still aboard.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the yellow horse stopped bucking and trotted toward the ranch house, Brady pulled him to a halt, and the buckskin stood, trembling in every limb.

  Stretch Magoon’s face was a blank study, and Curly Ward was staring, half angry.

  Van Brady smiled and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a white handkerchief. “He is spirited, isn’t he?” he said innocently. Then he glanced at Stretch Magoon. “Would you hand me my hat? I’m afraid he bucked it off!”

  Walking as if in a trance, his solemn eyes even more owllike than before, Magoon went over and picked up the hard hat. Almost subconsciously, he brushed off the dust, then handed it to Brady.

  The he schoolma’am smiled. “You’ve been very kind,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I got one of those really excitable horses you cowmen ride!” He looked at Ewing. “Which way do I go to the school?”

  “That road right ahead,” Ewing said. “Foller past them cottonwoods an’ cross the crick when you come t’ the willows. That’s where you’ll see the old Shanahan place. The schoolhouse is a might further on.”

  Curly Ward stared after him. “Did you see that?” he demanded. “Talk about a fool for luck! That pilgrim was almost off four, five times, an’ then bucked right back into the saddle! If I hadn’t seen it I wouldn’t believe it! He was all over that hoss like a cork in a mill stream! How he stuck with him is more’n I can guess!”

  Claire’s eyes were narrow as she stared after the teacher. The light in them was faintly curious. “I’m not so sure!” she said softly. “I’m not so sure!”

  Van Brady rode straight, sitting stiffly erect in the saddle until he was over the crest of the hill. Then he glanced around, safely out of sight of the ranch house, and out of hearing he exploded into laughter. He roared and laughed and finally settled into chuckling. “That Magoon!” he said to the yellow horse. “I won’t forget that long horse face of his if I live to be a hundred! He stood there with his mouth open like the end of a tunnel!”

  He patted the yellow horse on the shoulder. “You sure can buck, you yellow hunk of misery!” he said, grinning. “I was afraid I was overplaying my hand!”

  “ ‘You’ll have t’ gouge him pretty stiff,’ Magoon says,” Van repeated, chuckling. “Why, that long-faced baboon probably never saw the day he could ride this sinful old coyote bait!”

  The old Shanahan place was a cluster of buildings gathered in a hollow of the hills not far from Willow Creek. Van Brady glanced at them curiously, but did not stop. When he had skirted the hill he rode down the slight grade to the log school, built on a pleasant little flat not far from the creek.

  For an hour he scouted around, getting the lay of the land. Twice, back in the willow grove, he dismounted and dug in the soil. Each time he carefully covered the spot with sod and then with dry grass.

  Not over two miles away Web Fancher was sitting among the junipers on the hillside, talking to burly Neil Pratt, foreman for Pete Ritter. “He ain’t nobody,” Web said, disgustedly, “jest a he schoolma’am from back Boston way. He’s the on’y stranger that’s been around.

  “Hell!” he exploded. “Why don’t Pete move in an’ take over the place instead o’ all this pussyfootin’ around? Ever’body ’lows he kin do it!”

  Pratt shrugged. “He’s pretty shrewd. Knows what he’s doin’ most always. If’n anybody makes a pass at movin’ in over here, you get word t’ me right fast!”

  In her room at the ranch, Claire was writing a letter to Spanish John Roderigo, a rodeo and circus hand who had once worked for the ranch. She ended the brief note with a concise paragraph.

  What I want is the name, and description if possible, of the man who did the clown riding act with the Carson Shows two years ago. You will remember, you took me to that show when I was attending school.

  “We’ll just see, Mr. Schoolteacher Brady!” she said to herself. “I’ve a few ideas of my own!”

  Sunday morning was the time Magoon rode in for the mail. He saddled his horse, then went up to the kitchen. When he returned,
he swung into the saddle.

  Instantly, the paint exploded into a squealing fury of bucking. Caught entirely by surprise, for the paint hadn’t humped his back in weeks, Magoon hit the ground and rolled over in a cloud of dust while the paint went buck jumping away across the ranch yard.

  Nearly everyone had been outside, and Stretch heaved his six feet five from the dust with a pained expression on his face. The eight or nine cowhands were roaring with laughter.

  The schoolma’am shook his head sadly. He walked over and picked up Magoon’s sombrero, dusted it carefully, and handed it to him. “He is spirited, isn’t he?”

  “Now what do you s’pose got into that mangy crow bait?” Magoon demanded. “He ain’t bucked in a long time…hey?” He stopped, glaring at Curly. “You ain’t been up t’ no monkey business?”

  “Me?” Curly was honestly startled. “Not a bit of it!”

  Stretch limped after the paint and led it up to the corral once more. Then, feeling under the loosened saddle, he found the cockleburr. He glared at Curly Ward. “Why, you ornery, cow rastlin’ horny toad, I got a notion t’—”

  “Better get that mail,” Claire said. “You can settle it later.”

  Still growling, Magoon started for town. Claire turned and looked at Van Brady. He wiped the grin from his face. “Ever hear of that little cowboy prank, Mr. Brady?” she asked sweetly. “Putting a burr under a man’s saddle?”

  “Is that what happened?” he asked innocently. “I thought his horse was just a little excited.”

  When he turned away, she looked after him. Her father walked up and put his hand on her shoulder. “What’s the matter, Claire? You look like you had somethin’ on your mind. Ain’t fallin’ for that he schoolma’am are you?”

  “No,” she said sharply, “I’m not! And between us, I’m not so sure he’s a teacher!”

  The next day she kept her ears tuned to what was happening in the other room of the two-room school. Not only was Van Brady teaching, but he had even the bigger boys interested. He was making the fight at Lexington and Concord so interesting that Claire overheard the boys discussing it when they rode toward home.

  “You know,” he said to her as they started toward the ranch. “I am going to miss these rides, but I believe I could do some things around the school that need doing if I stayed right here at the school. Anyway, I always wanted to camp out a little.”

  “You mean, you’re going to move up here? Camp out?” she was incredulous.

  “Yes, I am. Right over there in the willows by the stream. I think I’d like it.”

  The following day he moved his gear into the willows and set up camp. Van Brady scratched his head thoughtfully. “This is going to be tough,” he told the buckskin. “How am I going to make that camp comfortable without letting them know I’m no greenhorn?”

  Web Fancher rode over to the Circle R. “That new schoolteacher’s done moved over t’ the school,” he said. “Didn’t know if it mattered none.”

  “The school?” Pratt shook his head. “Just so’s he don’t take no fool notion t’ move over to the Shanahan place.”

  * * *

  THE FIRST CLASS was in session the following morning when there was a clatter of horse’s hooves outside and the door was suddenly flung open. Neil Pratt strode into the room, slapping his thigh with a quirt. “You!” he pointed with the quirt at Tom Mawson, the nester’s son. “Ain’t I told you t’ stay off’n the Circle R? You come here! I’m goin’ t’ learn you a thing or two!”

  He grabbed Tom’s shoulder and jerked him from the seat. The next instant, a hand seized him by the belt, and he was jerked bodily from the floor and slammed back into the wall. Before he could realize what had happened, Van Brady was standing in front of him.

  “Listen, you!” Brady snapped. “You keep your hands off these kids! And don’t come barging into one of my classes when it’s in session. Understand?”

  Pratt heaved himself erect, his face suffused with rage. “Why, you…!” His fist started, but almost as soon as it started, something smashed his lips back into his teeth and he hit the door, tumbling to the ground outside.

  He scrambled to his feet with an inarticulate growl of fury. Claire, her face white, saw Neil Pratt hurl himself at Brady.

  The Circle R foreman was a notorious brawler, a huge man weighing over two hundred. Brady could never have weighed more than one hundred and fifty. Slim, wiry, but with broad shoulders, Brady looked much smaller than the Circle R foreman.

  Neil Pratt, blood trickling from his smashed lips, stared at Brady. “Why, you white-livered baby!” he sneered. “I’ll beat you t’ a pulp!”

  Four Circle R riders sat their horses, watching with interest. Pratt walked in, his face ugly. Coolly, Van Brady waited for him. A cowhand from boyhood, he had been places and learned other things. Pratt lunged, but his right missed, and Brady stepped inside, smashing two wicked blows to the body, then whipping a right hook to Pratt’s cheek that cut to the bone.

  Furious, Pratt tried to grab him. Van Brady was smooth, easy on his feet, his lips set, he glided in and out, boxing coolly, battering Pratt with punch after punch. Claire, astonished, suddenly realized what an incredible thing was happening. The schoolteacher was whipping Pratt!

  Pratt caught Brady with a right swing and knocked him against the ’dobe wall of the school; when he lunged after him, Brady’s foot caught him in the chest and shoved him back. Then, before he could get set, Van Brady moved in, smashed a left jab into his teeth, and crossed a chopping right to the chin. Pratt ducked his head and charged, but Brady was out of the way, and a snapping left bit into Pratt’s ear, making his head ring.

  He whirled, glaring wildly, and Brady moved in, feinted Pratt into a right swing, and then smashed a right to the body. Pratt tried again and took a left and a right. Brady wasn’t moving away now, he was weaving inside of Pratt’s vicious punches and nailing the big foreman with blow after blow in the stomach.

  Pratt’s breath was coming heavily now. The cut on his cheekbone was staining his shirt with blood, his lips were pulpy, his ear swollen. He ducked his head and started in, but two fast left jabs cut his eyebrow, and a right smashed his nose.

  With an oath, Lefty Brooks, one of the Circle R hands, dropped from his horse and started forward. “Hold it!” Stretch Magoon stepped around the corner of the school. “Jest set still an’ watch this,” he said grimly. “You all reckoned Pratt was some shakes of a fighter. Wal, watch a man fifty pounds lighter beat his thick head in!”

  Neil Pratt wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand; he was swaying on his feet. Somehow, something was wrong. In all his fights his huge fists or his great strength had won quickly. Here was a man who didn’t run away, who was always in there close, cutting, stabbing, slicing him with knifing punches, yet he couldn’t hit him!

  Pratt spread his hands, trying to get close. Suddenly Brady’s shoulder was invitingly close. He lunged to grab it, but somehow Brady caught his wrist, bent suddenly, and Pratt found himself flying through the air to land heavily on the turf a half-dozen feet away.

  Van Brady was breathing easily, and he was smiling now. “Get up, Big Boy!” he said softly. “I want to show you what happens to men who bust into my classes!”

  Pratt heaved himself heavily to his feet. Brady did not wait. He walked up to him, and hooked both hands hard to the head. Pratt started to fall, and Brady caught him by the hair and smashed him in the face with three wicked uppercuts. Then he let go and shoved, and Pratt toppled over on the ground.

  “Take him,” Brady said to the Ritter hands, “take him home. He’ll need a good, rest!”

  Sullenly, the Ritter hands helped Pratt to a horse and started off. Van Brady turned, wiping the sweat from his face. His clothes were not mussed, not even his wavy hair. The children stood staring admiringly as he walked to the pump to wash his bloody fists.

  “You did a job,” Magoon said solemnly. “I never seen a man fight like that. He couldn’t hit you.
”

  “They call it boxing,” Van said, straightening up. “Fighting is just like punching cows or trapping fur. It has to be learned. It isn’t anything fancy, it is just a lot of tricks learned over many years by a lot of different men, each one a good fighter. When you know a lot of them you become a skillful boxer.”

  He looked up at Stretch. “Thanks,” he said, “for keeping that monkey off my back.”

  “It won’t be enough, though,” Magoon said. “You got t’ get a gun. They’ll be back. That Pratt is mean!”

  The Circle R was standing around staring as Neil Pratt was helped from his horse. Both eyes were swollen tight shut. His face was a scarred and bloody mass.

  “What happened?” Ritter demanded.

  He was a tight-faced, hard-mouthed man with mean eyes. Some said he was a killer. That he had twenty killings behind him. He always wore two guns.

  “That schoolteacher,” Brooks said, “the one that’s livin’ at the schoolhouse.”

  Pete Ritter stepped down from the porch, his face livid. “Livin’ at the schoolhouse?” he snapped. “Don’t you know that’s on the Shanahan place? Jest loaned for a school? You pack o’ flea-brained dolts, that hombre may be a Shanahan!”

  In her own room, Claire Ewing was reading a letter from Spanish John.

  That hombre wot done the clown trik ridin ack was Shanahan Brady. He cum from Montana somewheres, but his pappy cum from Arizony, like us. He was a plumb salty hombre. For moren a year he was a prizefighter in Noo Yawk, an he done trick shootin in the show, too. If’n he’s out thar, yuh tell the boys to lay off. He ain’t no pilgrum.

  The table was crowded when she walked in with the letter in her hands. Coolly, she read it.

  “Why, that ornery coyote!” Magoon declared. “He done that ridin’ ack afore! I got a good notion t’ beat his…” The memory of Neil Pratt’s face came back to him. “No,” he finished, “I guess I better not.”