West of the Tularosa

by Louis L'Amour

  She looked up when he came through the door and smiled at him. “Come over and sit down,” she said. “Where’s Dan?”

  Krag smiled with hard amusement. “Getting money from Ryerson to buy him a new printing outfit.”

  “Hedrow?”

  “Him and the nesters signed a contract to supply Ryerson with hay. They’d have made a deal in the beginning if it hadn’t been for Chet. Hedrow tried to talk business once before. I heard him.”

  “And you?”

  He placed his hat carefully on the hook and sat down. He was suddenly tired. He ran his fingers through his crisp, dark hair. “Me?” He blinked his eyes and reached for the coffeepot. “I’m going to shave and take a bath. Then I’m going to sleep for twenty hours about, and then I’m going to throw the leather on my horse and hit the trail.”

  “I told you over there,” Carol said quietly, “that I didn’t want you to go.”

  “Uhn-uh. If I don’t go now”—he looked at her somberly—“I’d never want to go again.”

  “Then don’t go,” she said.

  And he didn’t.

  The Lion Hunter and the Lady

  The mountain lion stared down at him with wild, implacable eyes and snarled deep in its chest. He was big, one of the biggest Morgan had seen in his four years of hunting them. The lion crouched on a thick limb not over eight feet above his head.

  “Watch him, Cat,” Lone John Williams warned. “He’s the biggest I ever seen. The biggest in these mountains, I’ll bet.”

  “You ever seen Lop-Ear?” Morgan queried, watching the lion. “He’s half again bigger than this one.” He jumped as he spoke, caught a limb in his left hand, and then swung himself up as easily as a trapeze performer.

  The lion came to its feet then and crouched, growling wickedly, threatening the climbing man. But Morgan continued to mount toward the lion.

  “Give me that pole!” Morgan called to the older man. “I’ll have this baby in another minute!”

  “You watch it,” Williams warned. “That lion ain’t foolin’.”

  Never in the year he had been working with Cat Morgan had Lone John become accustomed to seeing a man go up a tree after a mountain lion. Yet in that period Morgan had captured more than fifty lions alive and had killed as many more. Morgan was not a big man as big men are counted, but he was tall, lithe, and extraordinarily strong. Agile as a cat, he climbed trees, cliffs, and rocky slopes after the big cats, for which he was named, and had made a good thing out of supplying zoo and circus animal buyers.

  With a noose at the end of the pole, and only seven feet below the snarling beast, Morgan lifted the pole with great care. The lion struck viciously and then struck again, and in that instant after the second strike, Morgan put the loop around his neck and drew the noose tight. Instantly the cat became a snarling, clawing, spitting fury, but Morgan swung down from the tree, dragging the beast after him.

  Before the yapping dogs could close with him, Lone John tossed his own loop, snaring the lion’s hind legs. Morgan closed with the animal, got a loop around the powerful forelegs, and drew it tight. In a matter of seconds the mountain lion was neatly trussed and muzzled, with a stick thrust into its jaws between its teeth, and its jaws tied shut with rawhide.

  Morgan drew a heavy sack around the animal and then tied it at the neck, leaving the lion’s head outside.

  Straightening, Cat Morgan took out the makings and began to roll a smoke. “Well,” he said, as he put the cigarette between his lips, “that’s one more and one less.”

  Hard-ridden horses sounded in the woods and then a half dozen riders burst from the woods and a yell rent the air. “Got ’em, Dave! Don’t move, you!” The guns the men held backed up their argument, and Cat Morgan relaxed slowly, his eyes straying from one face to another, finally settling on the big man who rode last from out of the trees.

  This man was not tall, but blocky and powerful. His neck was thick and his jaw wide. He was clean-shaven, unusual in this land of beards and mustaches. His face wore a smile of unconcealed satisfaction now, and, swinging down, he strode toward them. “So, you finally got caught, didn’t you? Now how smart do you feel?”

  “Who do you think we are?” Morgan asked coolly. “I never saw you before.”

  “I reckon not, but we trailed you right here. You’ve stole your last horse. Shake out a loop, boys. We’ll string ’em up right here.”

  “Be careful with that talk,” Lone John said. “We ain’t horse thieves an’ ain’t been out of the hills in more’n a year. You’ve got the wrong men.”

  “That’s tough,” the big man said harshly, “because you hang, here and now.”

  “Maybe they ain’t the men, Dorfman. After all, we lost the trail back yonder a couple of miles.” The speaker was a slender man with black eyes and swarthy face.

  Without turning, Dorfman said sharply: “Shut up! When I want advice from a ’breed, I’ll ask it.”

  His hard eyes spotted the burlap sack. The back of it lay toward him, and the lion’s head was faced away from him. All he saw was the lump of the filled sack. “What’s this? Grub?” He kicked hard at the sack, and from it came a snarl of fury.

  Dorfman jumped and staggered back, his face white with shock. Somebody laughed, and Dorfman wheeled, glaring around for the offender. An old man with gray hair and a keen, hard face looked at Morgan. “What’s in that sack?” he demanded.

  “A mountain lion,” Cat replied calmly. “A nice, big, live lion. Make a good pet for your loudmouthed friend.” He paused and then smiled tolerantly at Dorfman. “If he wouldn’t be scared of him.”

  Dorfman’s face was livid. Furious that he had been frightened before these men, and enraged at Morgan as the cause of it, he sprang at Morgan and swung back a huge fist. Instantly Cat Morgan stepped inside the punch, catching it on an up raised forearm. At the same instant he whipped a wicked right uppercut to Dorfman’s wind. The big man gasped and paled. He looked up, and Morgan stepped in and hooked hard to the body, and then the chin. Dorfman hit the ground in a lump.

  Showing no sign of exertion, Morgan stepped back. He looked at the older man. “He asked for it,” he said calmly. “I didn’t mind, though.” He glanced at Dorfman, who was regaining his breath and his senses, and then his eyes swung back to the older man. “I’m Cat Morgan, a lion hunter. This is Lone John Williams, my partner. What Lone John said was true. We haven’t been out of the hills in a year.”

  “He’s telling the truth.” It was the half-breed. The man was standing beside the tree. “His hounds are tied right back here, an’ from the look of this tree they just caught that cat. The wood is still wet where the bark was skimmed from the tree by his boots.”

  “All right, Loop.” The older man’s eyes came back to Morgan. “Sorry. Reckon we went off half-cocked. I’ve heard of you.”

  A wiry, yellow-haired cowhand leaned on his pommel. “You go up a tree for the cats?” he asked incredulously. “I wouldn’t do it for a thousand dollars!”

  Dorfman was on his feet. His lips were split and there was a cut on his cheek bone. One eye was rapidly swelling. He glared at Morgan. “I’ll kill you for this!” he snarled.

  Morgan looked at him. “I reckon you’ll try,” he said. “There ain’t much man in you, just brute and beef.”

  The older man spoke up quickly. “Let’s go, Dorf. This ain’t catchin’ our thief.”

  As the cavalcade straggled from the clearing, the man called Loop loitered behind. “Watch yourself, Morgan,” he said quietly. “He’s bad, that Dorfman. He’ll never rest until he kills you, now. He won’t take it lyin’ down.”

  “Thanks.” Cat’s gray-green eyes studied the half-breed. “What was stolen?”

  Loop jerked his head. “Some of Dorfman’s horses. Blooded stock, stallion, three mares, and four colts.”

  Morgan watched him go, and then walked back down the trail for the pack animals. When they had the cat loaded, Lone John left him to take it back to camp.

  Mou
nting his own zebra dun, Morgan now headed downcountry to prospect a new cañon for cat sign. He had promised a dealer six lions and he had four of them. With luck he could get the other two this week. Only one of the hounds was with him, a big, ugly brute that was one of the two best lion dogs he had, just a mongrel. Big Jeb was shrewd beyond average. He weighed one hundred and twenty pounds and was tawny as the lions he chased.

  The plateau was pine-clad, a thick growth that spilled over into the deep cañon beyond, and that cañon was a wicked jumble of wrecked ledges and broken rock. At the bottom he could hear the roar and tumble of a plunging mountain stream, although he had never seen it. That cañon should be home for a lot of lions.

  There was no trail. The three of them—man, dog, and horse—sought a trail down, working their way along the rim over a thick cover of pine needles. At last Cat Morgan saw the slope fall away steeply, but at such a grade that he could walk the horse to the bottom. Slipping occasionally on the needles, they headed down.

  Twice Jeb started to whine as he picked up old lion smell, but each time he was dissuaded by Cat’s sharp-spoken command.

  There was plenty of sign. In such a cañon as this it should take him no time at all to get his cats. He was walking his horse and rolling a smoke when he heard the sound of an axe. It brought him up, standing.

  It was impossible! There could be nobody in this wild area, nobody! Not in all the days they had worked the region had they seen more than one or two men until they encountered the horse-thief hunters.

  Carefully he went on, calling Jeb close to the horse and moving on with infinite care. Whoever was in this wilderness would be somebody he would want to see before he was seen. He remembered the horse thieves whose trail had been lost. Who else could it be?

  Instantly he saw evidence of the correctness of his guess. In the dust at the mouth of the cañon were tracks of a small herd of horses.

  Grimly he eased his Colt in the holster. Horse thieves were a common enemy, and, although he had no liking for Dorfman, this was his job, too.

  Taller than most, Cat Morgan was slender of waist. Today he wore boots, but usually moccasins. His red flannel shirt was sun-faded and patched, his black jeans were saddle polished, and his face was brown from sun and wind, hollow-cheeked under the keen gray-green eyes. His old hat was black and flat-crowned. It showed rough usage.

  Certainly the thief had chosen well. Nobody would ever find him back in here. The horses had turned off to the right. Following, Cat went down, through more tumbled rock and boulders, and then drew up on the edge of a clearing.

  It was after sundown here. The shadows were long, but near the far wall was the black oblong of a cabin, and light streamed through a window and the wide-open door.

  Dishes rattled, the sound of a spoon scraping something from a dish, and he heard a voice singing. A woman’s voice.

  Amazed, he started walking his horse nearer, yet the horse had taken no more than a step when he heard a shrill scream, a cry odd and inhuman, a cry that brought him up short. At the same instant, the light in the house went out and all was silent. Softly he spoke to his horse and walked on toward the house.

  He heard the click of a back-drawn hammer, and a cool girl’s voice said: “Stand right where you are, mister! And if you want to get a bullet through your belt buckle, just start something!”

  “I’m not moving,” Morgan said impatiently. “But this isn’t a nice way to greet visitors.”

  “Who invited you?” she retorted. “What do you want, anyway? Who are you?”

  “Cat Morgan. I’m a lion hunter. As for being invited, I’ve been a lot of places without being invited. Let me talk to your dad or your husband.”

  “You’ll talk to me. Lead your horse and start walking straight ahead. My eyes are mighty good, so if you want to get shot, just try me.”

  With extreme care, Morgan walked on toward the house. When he was within a dozen paces, a shrill but harsh voice cried: “Stand where you are! Drop your guns!”

  Impatiently Morgan replied: “I’ll stand where I am, but I won’t drop my guns. Light up and let’s see who you are.”

  Someone moved, and later there was a light. Then the girl spoke. “Come in, you.”

  She held a double-barreled shotgun and she was well back inside the door. A tall, slender but well-shaped girl, she had rusty red hair and a few scattered freckles. She wore a buckskin shirt that failed to conceal the lines of her lovely figure.

  Her inspection of him was cool, careful. Then she looked at the big dog that had come in and stood alongside him. “Lion hunter? You the one who has that pack of hounds I hear nearby every day?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been running lions up on the plateau. Catching ’em, too.”

  She stared. “Catching them? Alive? Sounds to me like you have more nerve than sense. What do you want live lions for?”

  “Sell ’em to some circus or zoo. They bring anywhere from three to seven hundred dollars, depending on size and sex. That beats punching cows.”

  She nodded. “It sure does, but I reckon punching cows is a lot safer.”

  “How about you?” he said. “What’s a girl doing up in a place like this? I didn’t have any idea there was anybody back in here.”

  “Nor has anybody else up to now. You won’t tell, will you? If you go out of here and tell, I’ll be in trouble. Dorfman would be down here after me in a minute.”

  “For stealing horses?” Morgan asked shrewdly.

  Her eyes flashed. “They are not his horses. They are mine. Every last one of them.” She lowered the gun a trifle. “Dorfman is both a bully and a thief. He stole my dad’s ranch, then his horses. That stallion is mine, and so are the mares and their get.”

  “Tell me about it,” he suggested. Carefully he removed his hat.

  She studied him doubtfully, and then lowered the gun. “I was just putting supper on. Draw up a chair.”

  “Let’s eat!” a sharp voice yelled. Startled, Cat looked around and for the first time saw the parrot in the cage.

  “That’s Pancho,” she explained. “He’s a lot of company. I’m Laurie Madison.”

  Her father had been a trader among the Nez Percé Indians, and from them he obtained the splendid Appaloosa stallion and the mares from which his herd was started. When Karl Dorfman appeared, there had been trouble. Later, while she was East on a trip, her father had been killed by a fall from a horse. Returning, she found the ranch sold and the horses gone.

  “They told me the stallion had thrown him. I knew better. It had been Dorfman and his partner, Ad Vetter, who found Dad. And then they brought bills against the estate and forced a quick sale of all property to satisfy them. The judge worked with them. Shortly after, the judge left and bought a ranch of his own. Dad never owed money to anyone. I believe they murdered him.”

  “That would be hard to prove. Did you have any evidence?”

  “Only what the doctor said. He told me the blows could not have been made by the fall. He believed Dad had been struck while lying on the ground.”

  Cat Morgan believed her. Whether his own dislike of Dorfman influenced it, he did not know. Somehow the story rang true. He studied the problem thoughtfully. “Did you get anything from the ranch?”

  “Five hundred dollars and a ticket back East.” Anger flashed in her eyes as she leaned toward him to refill his cup. “Mister Morgan, that ranch was worth at least forty thousand dollars. Dad had been offered that much and refused it.”

  “So you followed them?”

  “Yes. I appeared to accept the situation, but discovered where Dorfman had gone and followed him, determined to get the horses back, at least.”

  It was easier, he discovered two hours later, to ride to the secret valley than to escape from it. After several false starts, he succeeded in finding the spot where the lion had been captured that day, and then hit the trail for camp. As he rode, the memory of Dorfman kept returning—a brutal, hard man, accustomed to doing as he chose. He had not see
n the last of him, he knew.

  Coming into the trees near the camp, Cat Morgan grew increasingly worried, for he smelled no smoke and saw no fire. Speaking to the horse, he rode into the basin and drew up sharply. Before him, suspended from a tree, was a long black burden!

  Clapping the spurs to the horse, he crossed the clearing and grabbed the hanging figure. Grabbing his hunting knife, he slashed the rope that hung him from the tree, and then lowered the old man to the ground. Loosening his clothes, he held his hand over the old man’s heart. Lone John was alive!

  Swiftly Morgan built a fire and got water. The old man had not only been hanged, but had been shot twice through the body and once through the hand. But he was still alive.

  The old man’s lids fluttered, and he whispered: “Dorfman. Five of ’em. Hung me…heard somethin’…they done…took off.” He breathed hoarsely for a bit. “Figured it…it was you…reckon.”

  “Shhh. Take it easy now, John. You’ll be all right.”

  “No. I’m done for. That rope…I grabbed it…held my weight till I plumb give out.”

  The wiry old hand gripping his own suddenly eased its grip, and the old man was dead.

  Grimly Cat got to his feet. Carefully he packed what gear had not been destroyed. The cats had been tied off a few yards from the camp and had not been found. He scattered meat to them, put water within their reach, and returned to his horse. A moment only, he hesitated. His eyes wide-open to what lay ahead, he lifted the old man across the saddle of a horse, and then mounted his own. The trail he took led to Seven Pines.

  It was the gray hour before the dawn when he rode into the town. Up the street was the sheriff’s office. He knocked a long time before there was a reply. Then a hard-faced man with blue and cold eyes opened the door. “What’s the matter? What’s up?”

  “My partner’s been murdered. Shot down, then hung.”

  “Hung?” The sheriff stared at him, no friendly light in his eyes. “Who hung him?”