Flint (1960)

by L'amour, Louis

  Turning north he worked his way, his pack once more riding his chafed and aching shoulders, along the edge of the cliff. A path would be here, a narrow lip of a path negotiated by deer, antelope, and bear, occasionally by half-wild cattle.

  The sun would soon be gone. It was unlikely that he would find the crack in the wall tonight. Several times he stopped, twisted by the pain in his stomach.

  When he found the path he looked upon it with awe. Flint had said a good mountain horse could manage it, but if he did the rider’s foot would hang over space.

  Below all was blackness. Farther out the dying sun had turned the lava beds into a red flaming mass that relived for an instant in the sunset their former molten terror. Beyond the lava, miles away, a dark bulking shoulder of rock might be El Morro, the Inscription Rock, where, more than two hundred and fifty years before, Spanish men had signed their names.

  Although the cliff down which he made his way lay deep in shadow the path could be clearly seen, and the lava beds were still bathed in slowly dulling red fire.

  At the bottom the path ended in a maze of boulders and rocky debris outgrown with low brush and a few stunted trees. Once he barked his shins on the edge of a rock, and again he stumbled and fell to his knees. Finally he sat down and slid the pack from his back. He was exhausted.

  Kettleman had never known weakness in his life, and never illness. His physical strength was enormous and he had learned to rely upon it, and now for the first time he was feeling weakness. He had walked a long way, driven on as much by determination to get where he was going as anything.

  He sat very still, breathing hoarsely. He felt sick at his stomach and was afraid he was going to have more of those agonizing pains.

  The shadows grew darker and the light faded from the lava beds. Only the sky remained a deeper blue, and here and there a bright star hung against the sky like a lamp. Still he did not move. His breathing eased, and the pains did not come, yet still he waited.

  It was too late to find the crack in the rock now, and it might take him days, even with the landmarks Flint had provided. It was odd, how all through the years he had kept this place in mind as if he had known that some day he would come here.

  He had no faith in people. He had avoided all close contacts with them when possible. Occasionally he had tricked himself into little kindnesses from some deep inner instinct or perhaps some vague desire for warmth and friendship. But he had brusquely rejected all thanks, and fled from appreciation.

  He had never hated his wife or her father for what they had planned to do, nor for the times they had tried to profit by the connection. He did not hate them, for he had been taught to expect nothing better, and they were acting as he expected people to act.

  From the day of his arrival in the East he had known but one ambition, and that was for wealth and power. He fought as Flint had taught him to fight, but using the weapons of his knowledge gained at school, his reading since that time, and the information acquired from day to day. He acted coldly, ruthlessly, yet shrewdly.

  Kettleman’s first job in the East was driving a hansom cab and he had deliberately sought it, as a way to learn the town, to see where the various types of people gathered, and to learn where the money was.

  He overheard a discussion between two businessmen of a building they planned to put up and the way they intended to acquire the property for it. He moved in quickly the next morning at daybreak, bought an option on a key lot, and sold it two weeks later for a substantial profit.

  Then he found a job as messenger for a brokerage house where he worked for a year, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open. He carefully kept his stake intact, and from time to time made small investments from it. A year after his arrival in New York he had tripled his original stake.

  Each investment had been based upon information obtained during his working hours, and he never forgot how much a pair of attentive ears can overhear. Later, when he was in a position to do so, he deliberately hired such men to listen for him. Businessmen often discussed their affairs as though the driver of the hansom was deaf, and the information was often of value.

  He was startled from his dreaming by the click of a hoof on stone, and he turned his head to see a rider coming down the trail along the lava beds. Behind him were strung out a bunch of cattle. Well concealed, Kettleman had only to sit still and allow them to pass. Three more riders brought up the rear, and he did not need to be told why the cattle were being moved at such an hour.

  The last of the riders trailed some distance behind, and when he was almost up to Kettleman, he drew up.

  It was completely dark now. Kettleman knew the rider had come to a halt because of the cessation of movement, and then he heard a creak of saddle leather as the man moved slightly in the saddle.

  Kettleman made no move except to turn the shotgun toward the sound.

  He heard a match strike and through the leaves he could see the light reveal momentarily, not a face as would be expected, but a hand. The rider had held the fire away from him, expecting to draw a shot.

  Kettleman was amused, but he did not move. The match was dropped, and then another one lighted. “Well” — the voice was a soft drawl — “don’t reckon you plan to shoot me, so why don’t we talk?”

  The horse stomped restlessly, but the man called Kettleman made no move. The unseen rider drew a cigarette down to the match, bending his head to meet his cupped hand, rather than otherwise. Kettleman caught a brief glimpse of a gaunt, hard-boned face, and then the match was blown out and there was only the glow from the cigarette.

  “This horse,” the soft drawl continued, “is a good night horse. Broke him from a wild bunch, and he’s worth his weight in gold to a night-riding man. He spotted you first off. If you’d been a horse he would have whinnied, if you’d been a cow-critter he would have cut out after you, and he’d shy from a bear or a lion, so you’ve got to be a man.”

  The rider paused. “Something different about you, too. I can tell that by his attitude.”

  Kettleman remained still, curious to see what the rider would do next. And when the rider did speak his voice was plaintive. “Now, see here. I done my part. It’s up to you. How’s folks to get acquainted if somebody is so standoffish? If you’re afraid of crowds, you needn’t be. That bunch up ahead are gone to hell and gone by now. They sure are skittish.”

  “Why, I mind a time down in Texas — Say, who are you, anyhow?”

  Kettleman decided the man’s sharpness deserved its reward. It took a man with acute senses to detect from the actions of a ridden horse that he was not alone, and in the dark, at that.

  “I am a man who minds his own affairs,” he said aloud, “and that’s all I ask of others.”

  “Talks mighty well, he does. Talks like a man who’d had schoolin’, and I’d say there ain’t too many of that kind around this neck of the hills.”

  “You might,” the rider said suddenly, “jump the wrong fence and figure me for a rustler. As a matter of fact, I have rustled a few head, tune to tune, but that was in another country and a long time back.

  “In spite of how it looked, I wasn’t with those boys. Not in the rustling. You see, I know them, and I could figure that where they were, rustling would be, so I thought I’d ride out tonight and read them from the Book.”

  “You know, sort of set up an understandin’, like. They do as they might, as long as they lay off the outfit I ride for. If they jump my brand, I told them I’d come huntin’.”

  The stub of the cigarette described a brief arc and hit against the lava, then lost itself in the rocks.

  “Mighty one-sided, this here conversation,” the rider said, “but if you happen to be one of those travelin’ gunslingers who are riding into this country, you lay off the Kaybar. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Neither do I,” Kettleman said, “and we’re not likely to run into each other again.”

  There was a silence for a minute or two, but the rider showed no
disposition to move on. Kettleman could almost sense the man’s curiosity. Finally, the rider said, “Now there’s a strange thing. You say I’ll not see you again — run into you, I mean. This is a big country, but not so big that folks can miss each other very easy. I’m going to be around. What’s going to happen to you that I won’t see you?”

  When there was no reply, the rider said, “This is a good country, friend.” He paused, and then he added, “If you’re on the dodge you might like to know there isn’t even a town marshal in Alamitos — never needed one.”

  “Folks ain’t inclined to pry, although there’s newcomers around. Some of them are building up to be mighty unpopular.”

  “I know nothing about things here,” Kettleman replied, “and I have no interest in local affairs.”

  He found himself liking the cool, quiet-talking man. He heard a whisper of paper and knew the man was building another cigarette.

  “You’re not from hereabouts, or I’d recall your voice,” the rider said, “and I know almost everybody around. You don’t fit anywhere unless you’re a friend of Port Baldwin.”

  Kettleman felt a cool wind blowing down the canyon. He waited, and then he said, “I don’t know the man. Does he live here?”

  “Newcomer. From back East somewhere. He just moved into the country with forty thousand head of cows and that means he’s got to crowd everybody off their range. I think he knew that when he came in.”

  Porter Baldwin. He had never met him but he knew his name. It was one of those things he believed he had left behind.

  “Is he the one who is importing the gunfighters?”

  “That’s the one. Although Tom Nugent may do the same.”

  “And what about your outfit?”

  “Kaybar?” The man chuckled. “I suppose the boys over there would say I was the gunfighter for Kaybar. I’d not claim the job for myself but they might claim it for me. And there’s a salty bunch at Kaybar. The colonel knew how to pick them.”

  “Knew?”

  “He’s dead. His daughter handles the outfit”

  “How does a girl figure to lead a war?”

  “If a girl can do it, this one can. She’s a girl to ride the river with, I’d say. I’d not want a better boss.”

  The rider was silent for a few minutes, then said, “I’m going to ride along.” He paused. “You got grub? coffee?”

  “Thanks. I do have them.”

  “But no horse. And that’s a curious thing. A man afoot in this country isn’t going far.”

  The rider turned his mount “If you want to look me up, you ask for Pete Gaddis.”

  Kettleman listened to the sound of the retreating horse, strangely drawn to the man who had talked so quietly into the night Gaddis had wanted to talk, and to a stranger.

  So. Porter Baldwin.

  The past then was not so far behind. Yet Baldwin could have no idea that Kettleman was anywhere around. So what was Baldwin planning? Why had Baldwin suddenly come into this area with forty thousand head of cattle? Baldwin knew nothing of cattle and wasn’t likely to get interested in them.

  His mind, long attuned to business combat, now began to seek out causes and effects, searching for the hidden motivations behind Baldwin’s move. Gaddis had said, “That means he’s got to crowd somebody off their range.” That must be it.

  The interest then was not cattle, but land. Land here was held by big cattle outfits, the government, or the railroad. And Baldwin had done no negotiating with the railroad.

  The moon was rising, and he had not considered the moon. Living in cities, a man rarely looked at the sky.

  He shouldered his pack, hung the rifle from his shoulder by its sling and, carrying the shotgun, he started out. When he was opposite the point of rock he crossed the dry water-course and bedded down among the rocks. During the night he was awakened by pain. The pain twisted his vitals and he grew weak and sick and it was a long time before it passed off, and he slept.

  When he awakened again he was weak and drenched with cold sweat. He got up and built a small fire and huddled over it, shivering and chilled. The moonlight lay weirdly upon the ghostly rocks and threw eerie shadows along the sandy way where the water had gone. Off to the east the wall of the mesa lifted, towering black against the sky, and dawn came slowly from a cold sky, and he did not make coffee or eat.

  The gnawing pain in his stomach stayed with him, but he got up and shouldered his pack.

  He could not be far from the entrance to the hideout The wall of lava was about fifty feet high along here, huge black blocks of it, and then in places great wrinkled bulges like the skin of a sleeping elephant He walked along a few steps, stepping from rock to rock where possible and holding close to the wall for fear of missing the entrance.

  There was a lot of brush, stiff, wiry, and filled with thorns, clumps of prickly pear, and a few scattered pines. He had gone only a hundred yards or so when he felt a sickness in his stomach and he paused and leaned against the rock.

  He was frightened.

  The last thing he wanted was to die here, where he could be found. He must disappear, vanish completely. He waited, leaning against the rock. Finally he started on again. Only now his mind was made up. If he felt himself going he would use the last of his strength to crawl out on the lava bed. It would be a long time before they found him there.

  The man called Kettleman crawled down through the rocks, and lowered himself into a hollow space where water had spilled over some boulders after heavy rains, then climbed up the bank. He had gone only a mile when he looked up at the wall opposite. There was a slash of white quartz there. Somehow he had missed the opening. How he could have done so he could not imagine, but miss it he had. Turning, he retraced his steps.

  Twice he rested. It was almost noon before he found it. There was no brush concealing the opening, there was no jumble of boulders right at that point. The wall of lava took a slight bend, but in the open, where there was no evidence of any kind of an entrance. Kettleman had passed the place three times, thinking he had seen everything.

  The lava was cracked and split in many places, and right before him there was such a split, a crack that seemed no more than three inches wide.

  Yet when he stepped back he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of what appeared to be an optical illusion. He looked again. There was something wrong with the perspective in that crack. He walked slowly toward it, and when he was right up to the rock, he saw what it was. The left edge stood out almost four feet from the other side, and there was an opening that ran back into the rock parallel to the face. It seemed to go no more than six or seven feet and end in a blank wall. Yet when he stepped inside he saw that it wound back into the lava.

  Turning, he went back to the edge of the opening and, standing there, he carefully surveyed the lip of the cliff opposite. For a long time he stayed there, letting his eyes rove along that lip. Only then did he move out from the rock and carefully brush away the few tracks he had made.

  Returning to the opening in the wall he paused again to scan the rim of the cliff, but there was no sign of movement.

  He walked into the narrow, winding crack, which steadily grew narrower and dipped down deeper and deeper. It was wide enough for a horse if the stirrups were tied up, and the overhang would prevent its being seen from above, should anyone venture out upon the lava, an extremely remote chance.

  No man would venture upon the lava. Deer had been driven there by wolves, but their feet and legs became so badly lacerated they could not walk farther, and they died there.

  It took him almost an hour to reach the hideout in the lava beds, and when he arrived, he stopped, deeply stirred by the beauty of the little oasis. The sides rose steeply and curved inward at the top. The area at the bottom was scarcely an acre in extent, but a small stream ran from under the rock on one side, meandered across and lost itself under the lava again.

  There were several fruit trees, planted by Flint, and a patch of chia, whose seed was
used as food by the Indians. Until he had looked for several minutes he did not see the cabin, for it was merely the walled-up face of a rocky overhang, the entrance shadowed by a cottonwood.

  He walked slowly across the open grass toward a slit in the rock wall that apparently served as a window. He went past it and he found the door. It was a slab door, thick and strong. The man called Kettleman unlatched it and stepped inside.

  The room was larger than he expected, with two bunks built against the far wall. There was a table, two chairs, hooks on the wall, and a bench with a washbasin. There was a trickle of running water from the spring, and from both the door and the window the opening into the basin could be seen, and the entire basin covered.

  There was a broom.

  He dusted off the bed, then dumped his own gear on it. carefully, he swept, then built a small fire and made tea. When he had his tea and some hot broth he went to the door and sat down on the stoop, looking out over the hollow.

  This was the place. It was here he was going to die.

  Chapter 4

  The man called Kettleman sat on the step of the rock house and looked out over the shadowing acres of green. He listened to the wind in the pines, and smelled the freshness of the high, cool air. Something stirred deep within him, something forgotten.

  He had followed the lone trails, the ancient trails, the silent and mysterious trails with Flint. Wherever that strange and silent man wished to go, he seemed to know a hidden way to travel. For days on end they had ridden without speaking, their campfires surrounded by a vast and empty stillness.

  He remembered the pungent smell of cedar, the smokiness of damp wood, the crisp crackle of pine, the deep red glow of dying fires, the sound of wind in the mesquite. How many fires had he fed with wood or buffalo chips? He had traveled the far rim of civilization, moving like a ghost across lands known only to roaming Indians.

  Three years. Never once had Flint told him what they were about. Always he was left far behind to care for their horses and wait. Suddenly then, Flint would ride up and they would shift saddles and be gone again.