Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  They were a sullen, hard-bitten crew of miners, gamblers, freighters, and drifters that follow gold camps. They crowded around shouting questions. Then suddenly Wade Manning pushed through, followed by Buff McCarty.

  One glance, and the big man’s face went white. “Tommy!” his voice was agonized, and he sprang forward to lift the body from the saddle.

  He stared down into the boy’s white, blood-stained face. When he looked up his placid features were set in hard, desperate lines. “Who did this?” he demanded.

  With the crowd staring, Clip quietly told his story, helped by a word here and there from the girl, Ruth Manning. When the story was ended, Clip found himself ringed by a circle of hard, hostile eyes.

  “Then,” Buff McCarty said ominously, “you didn’t see this feller up on the hill, eh? And Ruth didn’t either. How do I know you didn’t kill Tommy?”

  “Yeah,” a big man with a broken nose said loudly. “This stranger’s yarn sounds fishy to me. The gal finds you all a standin’ over the McCarty kid with a gun, an’—”

  “Shut up, Porter!” Manning interrupted. “Let’s hear him out.”

  “Why should I shoot the boy?” Clip protested. “I never saw the kid before. I don’t shoot strangers.”

  “You say you heard shots, then rode up to him.” Buff rested his big hands on his hips, his eyes hard. “Did anybody but you an’ Ruth come nigh him?”

  “Not a soul!” Clip said positively.

  “Then,” Buff’s voice was harshly triumphant, “how d’ you account for this?” He lifted an empty leather poke, shaking it in Haynes’s face. “That there poke held three thousand dollars when my boy left town!”

  The broken-nosed Porter crowded closer to Clip. “You dirty, murderin’ coyote!” he shouted, his face red with anger. “Y’ oughta be lynched, dry-gulchin’ a kid that way!”

  “That’s right!” another voice yelled. “Lynch him!”

  “Hold it!” Clip Haynes’s voice was hard. His greenish eyes seemed to glow as he backed away. Suddenly, they saw he was holding two guns, although no man had seen, him draw. “Manning, you an’ McCarty ought to know better than this! Look at those wounds! That boy was shot with a rifle, not a six-gun! He was shot from higher up the mountain. You’ll find both those wounds range downward! You come out to Indian Creek to offer me the job of lawman around here. Well, I took it, an’ solvin’ this murder is goin’ t’ be my first job. But just to clear the air, I’m a-tellin’ all of you now, my name ain’t Perry—it’s Clip Haynes!”

  He backed to his horse, stepped quickly around and threw himself into the saddle. Then he faced the crowd, now staring at him, white-faced. Beyond them, he saw Doc Greenley. The banker-saloon man was smiling oddly.

  “I’ll be around,” Haynes said then, “an’ I aim to complete the job I started. You all know who I am. But if anybody here thinks I’m the killer of that boy, he can talk it out with me tomorrow noon in this street—with six-guns!”

  Clip Haynes wheeled the big black and rode rapidly away, and the crowd stood silent until he was out of sight. Then quietly they walked inside.

  “What d’ you think, Wade?” McCarty asked, turning to the tall, silent man beside him.

  Manning was staring up the road after Haynes, a curious light in his eyes. “I think we’d better let him handle it,” Wade said, “at least for the time. There’s more in this than meets the eye!”

  Doc Greenley walked up, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “Just the man!” he said eagerly. “Did you see how he handled that? Just the man we need! We can make our shipment now when we want to, and that man will take care of it!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Man-Bait for the Bushwhack Brothers

  DAWN FOUND CLIP Haynes sitting among the boulders beside the trail from Indian Creek. Below him was the spot where Tommy McCarty had fallen the previous night. Opposite him, somewhere on the hillside, was the place where the murderer had waited. The very place of concealment was obvious enough. It was not a hundred yards away, in a cluster of boulders and rock cedar, not unlike his own resting place. That the murderer had waited there was undoubted, but why?

  Clip Haynes pushed his hat back on his head and rolled a smoke.

  First, what were the facts? McCarty, Greenley, and Manning, three of Basin City’s most reputable business men, had hired him as marshal. But Rafe Landon, owner of the biggest mine, and the most popular saloon and dance hall, had not come along. Why?

  Secondly, someone had killed and robbed Tommy McCarty. Obviously, the killer had not robbed him, for both Clip and Ruth Manning had been too close. Then, the obvious conclusion was that Tommy had been robbed before he was killed!

  Clip sat up suddenly, his eyes narrowed. He was remembering the chafed spot on Tommy’s wrist, dimly seen in the light from the High-Stake Palace. Chafed from what? The answer hit him like a blow. Tommy McCarty had not only been robbed, but had been bound hand and foot! He had escaped, and then had been shot.

  But why shoot him afterward? That didn’t make sense. He already had lost the money, and if the thief had any doubts, he would have killed him the first time. The only answer was that Tommy McCarty had been mistaken for somebody else!

  But who? Obviously, whoever had waited on the hillside the previous night had been expecting someone to come along. So far, Clip knew of only three people besides McCarty who might have come along. Wade Manning, Ruth Manning, and himself. But wait! What was Wade doing on the road so late? And why was Ruth traveling alone on that lonely trail?

  There was always the possibility that Wade Manning, knowing Perry actually was Clip Haynes, had planned to kill him for the reward offered in Arizona. However, Manning didn’t look like a cowardly killer, and the theory didn’t, somehow, fit the facts.

  Clip Haynes shook his head with disgust. If it was just a matter of shooting it out with some tough gunman, he was all right, but figuring out a problem like this was something he had not bargained for. It was unlikely, however, that anyone would want to shoot Ruth, or that anyone guessed she was on the road that night. That left Wade and himself as the prospective victims of the killer, for by now he would know his mistake.

  Three men had known that he was taking the canyon trail to town—Doc Greenley, Wade Manning, and Buff McCarty. Clip’s eyes narrowed. Why, since he had been riding slowly, and Tommy McCarty probably at a breakneck speed, hadn’t Tommy passed him? Obviously because Tommy had come out on the trail at some point between where Clip had first heard his running horse and the point where he had seen the boy killed.

  Mounting, Clip turned the big black down the mountainside to the trail. As he rode along he scanned the edges carefully. Suddenly, he reined in.

  The hoof-prints of the big black were plainly seen, but suddenly a new trail had appeared, and Clip could see where a horse had been jumped from the embankment into the trail. Dismounting, and leading the black, he climbed the embankment and followed the trail. As soon as he saw it was plainly discernible, he swung into the saddle again and followed it rapidly.

  Two miles from the canyon trail, at the end of a bottleneck canyon, he found a half-ruined adobe house. Here the trail ended.

  Dismounting cautiously, Clip walked up to the ’dobe. The place was empty. Gun in hand, he knelt, examining the hardpacked earth of the floor.

  The earth was scuffed and kicked as though by a pair of heels, such marks as a man might make in a struggle to free himself. But there were no ropes in sight, nothing.…

  He froze. A shadow had fallen across him. He knew a man was crouching at the window behind him. His own gun was concealed from the watcher by his body. Apparently studying the earth, he waited for the first movement of the man behind him.

  It could only have been an instant later that he heard the click of a cocking gun hammer, and in that same flashing split second, he hurled himself to one side. The roar of the gun boomed in the ’dobe hut, and the dirt against the wall jumped in an awkward spray even as his own pistol roared. Clip leaped to
the door.

  A bullet slammed against the doorjamb not an inch from his head, as he recklessly sprang into the open, both guns bucking. The man staggered, tried to fire again, and then plunged over on his face.

  For a moment, Clip Haynes stood still, the light breeze brushing a lock of hair along his forehead. The sun felt warm against his cheek, and the silent figure on the sand looked sprawled and helpless.

  Automatically, Clip loaded his guns. Then he walked over to the body. Before he knelt his eyes scanned the rim of the canyon, examining every boulder, every tree. Satisfied, he bent over the fallen man. Then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It was the big man who had been so eager to see him lynched the night before, the man who had joined Porter in his protests.

  Clip’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he got to his feet. He turned slowly, facing the shack. He stood there a moment carelessly, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “All right,” he said finally, “you can come out from behind that shack. With your hands high!”

  Wade Manning stepped out, his hands up. His eyes glinted shrewdly. “Nice going,” he said. “How did you know I was there?”

  Clip shrugged, and indicated the big black horse with a motion of his head. “His ears. He doesn’t miss a thing.” He waited, his eyes cold.

  “I suppose you want to know what I’m doing here?”

  “Exactly. And what you were doing on the canyon trail last night. You seem to be around whenever there’s any shooting going on.”

  “I can explain that,” Wade said, smiling a little. “I don’t blame you for being suspicious. After we talked to you at the mine that day, I decided I’d better go back out there and tell you I knew who you were, and to be careful around the men at the mine. And I didn’t want you to jump to conclusions about Landon.”

  “What’s Rafe Landon to you?” Clip demanded.

  Wade shrugged, rolling a smoke. “Maybe I know men, maybe I don’t,” he affirmed, running his tongue along the paper. “But Rafe sizes up to me like a square shooter.” He glanced up. “And in spite of what Ruth says, I think you are too.”

  “Know this hombre?” Clip indicated the man on the ground.

  Wade nodded. “Only to see him. He worked for Buff McCarty for a while. Lately he’s been hanging around the Sluice Box. Name’s Dirk Barlow. He’s got a couple of tough-hand brothers.”

  Mounting, they started down the trail together. Clip Haynes glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Manning. He was clean cut, smooth, good-looking. His actions were suspicious, but he didn’t seem the type for a killer.

  Clip frowned a little. So Ruth didn’t like him? Something stirred inside him, and he found himself wishing she felt differently. Then he grinned wryly. A hunted gunman like Clip Haynes getting soft about a girl! There wouldn’t ever be any girls like Ruth for him.

  He looked up, his mind reverting to the former problem. “How about this gent Porter back in town—the one who was so sure I shot Tommy McCarty. Where, does he fit in?”

  “A bad hombre. Gun-slick, and tough. He killed a prospector his first night in town. About two weeks later he shot it out with a man named Pete Handown.”

  “I’ve heard of Handown. This Porter must be fast.”

  “He is. But mostly a fistfighter. He runs with the surviving Barlow brothers—Joe and Gonny. They’re gunmen, too. They’ve figured in most of the trouble around here. But they’ve got a ringleader. Somebody behind the scenes we can’t decide on.”

  “Greenley thinks it’s Rafe, eh?”

  “Yes. I’ll admit most of the gang hang around the Sluice Box. But I’m sure Rafe’s in the clear.” Wade looked up. “Listen, Clip. If you ride with the stage tomorrow, watch your step. There’s three hundred thousand in gold going out.”

  Doc Greenley was standing with Buff McCarty on the walk in front of the High-Stake Palace when they rode up. He glanced swiftly at the body slung over the lead horse. Then he smiled brightly. “Got ’em on the run, boy?” he asked. “Who is it this time?”

  “Dirk Barlow,” Buff said, his eyes narrowing. “You’ll have to ride careful now, Haynes. His brothers will come for you. They’re tough as hell.”

  Haynes shrugged. “He asked for it.” His eyes lifted to Buff’s. “I back-trailed Tommy. I knew he cut in ahead of me last night, and if you looked, there was a chafed spot on his wrist. I knew he’d been tied, so I looked for the place. I found it, and this hombre tried to kill me.”

  “You think he killed Tommy?” Buff demanded.

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t the money on him.” He turned his head to see Ruth Manning standing in front of the post office. Their eyes met, and she turned away abruptly.

  Clip swung down from the saddle and walked across the street. When he stepped into the Sluice Box he saw Rafe Landon leaning against the end of the bar.

  He was a tall man, handsome, and superbly built. There was an easy grace in his movements that was deceptive. He was wearing black, and when he turned, Clip saw he carried two guns, tied low.

  “How are you, Haynes?” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Haynes nodded. “What do you know about this McCarty killing?” he asked coolly. He deliberately ignored the outstretched hand.

  Landon smiled. “An accident, of course. Nobody cared about hurting Tommy. He was a grand youngster.”

  “What d’you mean—an accident?”

  “Just that. They were gunning for somebody else, but Tommy got there first.” Rafe looked down at his cigarette, flicked off the ash, and glanced up. “In fact, it would be my guess they were gunning for you. Somebody who didn’t want Clip Haynes butting in.”

  “Nobody knew I was Haynes.”

  Rafe shrugged. “I did. I’d known for two weeks. Manning knew too. Probably there were others.” He nodded toward the street. “I see you got Dirk Barlow. Watch those brothers of his. And look out for Porter, too.”

  “You’re the second man who told me that.”

  “There’ll be more. Joe and Gonny Barlow will be in as soon as they hear about this. Joe’s bad, but Gonny’s the worst. Gonny uses both hands, and he’s fast.”

  “Why tell me this?” Clip asked. He looked up, and their eyes met.

  Rafe Landon smiled. “You’ll need it, Haynes. I’m a gambler, and it’s my business to know about men. A word of friendly advice never hurt anyone—even a gent like you. Joe Barlow’s never been beat in a gunfight. And like I said, Gonny’s the worst.”

  “Porter? What’s he like?” Clip asked.

  “Maybe I can tell you,” a harsh voice broke in.

  Clip turned to see Porter standing in the doorway. He was big, probably twenty pounds bigger than Clip, and his shoulders were powerful.

  “All right,” Clip said. “You tell me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Barlows Strike

  PORTER WALKED OVER to the bar.

  Glancing past him Clip could see the room filling with men. Come to see the fun, to see if the new marshal could take it. Clip grinned suddenly.

  “What’s funny?” Porter snarled suspiciously.

  “You,” Clip said shortly. “Last night I thought I heard you say I needed lynching. I suggested anyone who wanted to debate the matter could shoot it out with me in the street. You weren’t around. What’s the matter? Yellow?”

  Porter stared, taken aback by the sudden attack. Somebody chuckled, and he let out a snarl of rage. “Why, you—!”

  Clip’s open palm slapped him across the mouth with such force that Porter’s head jerked back.

  With a savage roar, the big man swung. But Clip was too fast. Swaying on his feet, he slipped the punch and smashed a vicious right hand into the man’s body. Porter took it without flinching, and swung both hands to Clip’s head.

  Haynes staggered, and before he could set himself, Porter swung a powerful right that knocked him sprawling. Before Clip could get to his feet, Porter rushed in, kicking viciously at Haynes’s face, but the young marshal
jerked his head aside and took the kick on the shoulder. The camel boot sent pain shocks through his body.

  It knocked him rolling, but he gathered his feet under him and met Porter’s charge with a jarring left jab that set the bigger man back on his heels and smashed his upper lip into his teeth.

  Porter ducked his head and charged, but Clip was steadying down, and he sidestepped suddenly, bringing up a jolting right uppercut that straightened. Porter up for a crashing right that knocked him reeling into the bar.

  He grabbed a bottle and hurled it across the room, but Clip ducked and charged in, grabbing the big man about the knees and dropping him to the floor. Deliberately, Clip fell with him, driving his head into the man’s stomach with all his force, and then spinning on over to land on his feet.

  Breathing easily, he waited until Porter got up. The big man was dazed, and before he could assemble his faculties, Clip walked in and slapped him viciously with both hands, and then snapped his fist into Porter’s solar plexus with a jolt that doubled the bigger man up with a groan. A left hook spun him half around and ripped the skin under one eye. As he backed away, trying to cover, Clip walked in and pulled his hands away, crossing a wicked short right hook to the chin. Without a sound, Porter crumpled to the floor.

  Turning on his heel, Clip walked quickly from the room, never so much as glancing back.

  It was almost noon when he rode slowly down the mountain trail and tied his horse in a clump of mesquite. He glanced at the sun. In about fifteen minutes the stage should be along, and if it was to be held up, it would be somewhere in the next two miles. Carefully, he walked ahead until he found a place among the boulders, and then settled down to wait until the stage came along. From there on he could follow it.

  Suddenly, he noticed a cloud of dust above the trail in the distance. The stage. He got up, and stood watching it as it drew nearer. He could see that everything was as it should be, and turning, he walked back to his horse. When he was about a dozen steps away, he halted in midstep, and drew back. There on the ground, over one of his own tracks was a fresh boot-print, one heel rounded badly, and a queer scar across the toe!