The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2

by Louis L'Amour

  Langer pulled himself drunkenly to his feet and staggered toward the creek.

  Red measured Jim with careful eyes. “What would you do,” he asked suddenly, “if Langer reached for a gun?”

  Gary turned his level green eyes toward Slagle. “Why, I reckon I’d have to kill him,” he said matter-of-factly. “I hope he ain’t so foolish.”

  Dawn broke cold and gray, and Jim Gary walked his horse up into the hills where he’d heard the shot the night before. He knew that if Slagle saw him, he would be in trouble, but there was much he wanted to know.

  Despite the light fall of rain the night before, there were still tracks. He followed those of Slagle’s bay until he found where they joined those of a larger horse. Walking the buckskin warily, Jim followed the trail. It came to a sudden end.

  A horse was sprawled in the clearing, shot through the head. A dozen feet away lay an old man, a tall old man, his sightless eyes staring toward the lowering skies, his arms flung wide. Jim bent over him and saw that he had been shot three times through the chest. Three times. And the wound lower down was an older wound, several days old, at least.

  The horse wore a Slash Four brand. Things were beginning to make sense now. Going through the old man’s pockets, Jim found a worn envelope containing some tallies of cattle, and the envelope was addressed to Tom Blaze, Durango, Colo.

  Tom Blaze … the Slash Four!

  Tom Blaze, the pioneer Kiowa-fighting cattleman who owned the Slash Four, one of the toughest outfits in the West! Why he had not connected the two Jim could not imagine, but the fact remained that the Slash Four had struck no responsive chord in his thoughts until now.

  And Tom Blaze was dead.

  Now it all fitted. The old Mother Hubbard saddle had been taken from Tom’s horse, for this was the second time he had been shot. Earlier, perhaps when the cattle had been stolen, they had shot him and left him for dead, yet they had been unable to leave the saddle behind, for a saddle was two or three months’ work for a cowhand and not to be lightly left behind.

  They had been sure of themselves, too. Sure until Gary had seen Blaze, following them despite his wound. After that they had been worried, and Slagle must have sighted Blaze the afternoon before and then followed him and shot him down.

  When the Slash Four found Tom Blaze dead all heck would break loose. Dirksen knew that, and that was why he wanted out, but fast. And it was why Red Slagle and Tobe Langer had pushed so hard to get the cattle to Salt Creek, where they could be lost in larger herds or in the breaks of the hills around the Double A.

  When he rode the buckskin down to the fire the others were all up and moving around. Langer’s face was swollen and there were two deep cuts, one on his cheekbone, the other over an eye. He was sullen and refused to look toward Gary.

  Slagle stared at the buckskin suspiciously, noticing the wetness on his legs from riding in the high grass and brush.

  Whatever the segundo had in mind he never got a chance to say. Jim Gary poured a cup of coffee, but held it in his left hand. “Red, I want my money. I’m takin’ out.”

  “Mind if I ask why?” Red’s eyes were level and waiting.

  Gary knew that Slagle was a gunhand, but the thought did not disturb him. While he avoided trouble, it was never in him to be afraid, nor did his own skill permit it. While he had matched gun speed with only one man, he had that sure confidence that comes from unerring marksmanship and speed developed from long practice.

  “No, I don’t mind. This morning I found Tom Blaze’s body, right where you killed him yesterday afternoon. I know that Slash Four outfit, and I don’t want to be any part of this bunch when they catch up to you.”

  His frankness left Slagle uncertain. He had been prepared for evasion. This was not only sincerity, but it left Slagle unsure as to Gary’s actual stand. From his words Slagle assumed Gary was leaving from dislike of fight rather than dislike of rustling.

  “You stick with us, Jim,” he said. “You’re a good man, like Mart said. That Slash Four outfit won’t get wise, and there’ll be a nice split on this cattle deal.”

  “I want no part of it,” Jim replied shortly. “I’m out. Let me have my money.”

  “I ain’t got it,” Red said simply. “Ray pays us all off. I carry no money around. Come on, Jim, lend us a hand. We’ve only today; then we’ll be at the head of Salt Creek Wash and get paid off.”

  Gary hesitated. He did need the money, for he was broke and would need grub before he could go on west. Since he had come this far, another day would scarcely matter. “All right, I’ll finish the drive.”

  Nothing more was said, and within the hour they moved out. Yet Gary was restless and worried. He could feel the tenseness in the others and knew they, too, were disturbed. There was no sign of Mart Ray, who should be meeting them soon.

  To make matters worse, the cattle were growing restive. The short drives had given them time to recover some of their energy, and several of them, led by one big red steer, kept breaking for the brush. It was hot, miserable work. The clouds still hung low, threatening rain, but the air was sultry.

  Jim Gary started the day with the lean gray horse he had ridden before, but by midafternoon he had exchanged the worn-out animal for his own buckskin. Sweat streamed down his body under his shirt, and he worked hard, harrying the irritable animals down the trail that now was lined with piñon and juniper, with a sprinkling of huge boulders. Ahead, a wide canyon opened, and not far beyond would be the spot where he expected to find Ray with the payoff money.

  The big red steer suddenly made another bolt for the brush, and the buckskin unwound so fast that it almost unseated Gary. He swore softly and let the horse take him after the steer and cut it back to the herd. As it swung back, he glanced up to see Langer and Red Slagle vanishing into the brush. Where Dirksen was he could not guess until he heard a wild yell.

  Swinging around, he saw a dozen hard-riding horsemen cutting down from the brush on both sides, and a glance told him that flight was useless. Nevertheless, Jeeter Dirksen tried it.

  Slamming the spurs into his bronc, Dirksen lunged for the brush in the direction taken by Slagle and Langer, but he had made no more than a dozen yards when a rattle of gunfire smashed him from the saddle. His slender body hit the ground rolling, flopped over one last time, and lay sprawled and sightless under the low gray clouds.

  Gary rested his hands on his saddle horn and stared gloomily at the strange little man, so badly miscast in this outlaw venture. Then horsemen closed in around him; his six-guns were jerked from their holsters and his rifle from its scabbard.

  “What’s the matter with you?” The voice was harsh. “Won’t that horse of yours run?”

  Jim looked up into a pair of cold gray eyes in a leatherlike face. A neat gray mustache showed above a firm-lipped mouth. Jim Gary smiled, although he had never felt less like it in his life. The horsemen surrounded him, and their guns were ready. “Never was much of a hand to run,” Jim said, “an’ I’ve done nothing’ to run for.”

  “You call murderin’ my brother nothin’? You call stealin’ cattle nothin’? Sorry, friend, we don’t see things alike. I call it hangin’.”

  “So would I, on’y I haven’t done those things. I hired onto this outfit back down the line. Forty bucks to the head of Salt Creek Wash … an’ they ain’t paid me.”

  “You’ll get paid!” The speaker was a lean, hard-faced young man. “With a rope!”

  Another rider, a girl, pushed a horse through the circle. “Who is this man, Uncle Dan? Why didn’t he try to get away?”

  “Says he’s just a hired hand,” Uncle Dan commented.

  “That’s probably what that dead man would have said, too!” the lean puncher said. “Let me an’ the boys have him under that cottonwood we seen. It had nice strong limbs.”

  Gary had turned his head to look at the girl. Uncle Dan would be Dan Blaze, and this must be the daughter of the murdered man. She was tall and slim, but rounded of limb and undeniably attra
ctive, with color in her cheeks and a few scattered freckles over her nose. Her eyes were hazel and now looked hard and stormy.

  “Did you folks find Tom Blaze’s body?” he asked. “They left him back yonder.” Lifting a hand carefully to his shirt pocket he drew out the envelope and tally sheets. “These were his.”

  “What more do you need?” The lean puncher demanded. He pushed his horse against Jim’s and grabbed at the buckskin’s bridle. “Come on, boys!”

  “Take it easy, Jerry!” Dan Blaze said sharply. “When I want him hung, I’ll say so.” His eyes shifted back to Jim. “You’re a mighty cool customer,” he said. “If your story’s straight, what are you doing with these?”

  As briefly as possible, Jim explained the whole situation and ended by saying, “What could I do? I still had forty bucks comin’, an’ I did my work, so I aim to collect.”

  “You say there were three men with the herd? And the two who got away were Tobe Langer and Red Slagle?”

  “That’s right,” Jim hesitated over Mart Ray and then said no more.

  Blaze was staring at the herd, and now he looked at Jim. “Why were these cattle branded Double A? That’s a straight outfit. You know anything about that?”

  Gary hesitated. Much as he had reason to believe Ray was not only one of these men but their leader, he hated to betray him. “Not much. I don’t know any of these outfits. I’m a Texas man.”

  Blaze smiled wryly. “You sound it. What’s your handle?”

  “Jim Gary.”

  The puncher named Jerry started as if struck. “Jim Gary?” he gasped, his voice incredulous. “The one who killed Sonoma?”

  “Yeah, I reckon.”

  Now they were all staring at him with new interest, for the two fights he had were ample to start his name growing a legend on the plains and desert. These punchers had heard of him, probably from some grub-line rider or drifting puncher.

  “Jim Gary,” Blaze mused. “We’ve heard about you. Old Steve’s son, aren’t you? I knew Steve.”

  Jim looked up, his eyes cold. “My father,” he said grimly, “was a mighty good man!”

  Dan Blaze’s eyes warmed a little. “You’re right. He was.”

  “What of it?” Jerry demanded sullenly. “The man’s a killer. We know that. We found him with the cattle. We found him with some of Tom’s stuff on him. What more do you want?”

  The girl spoke suddenly. “There was another rider, one who joined you and then rode away. Who was he?”

  There it was, and Jim suddenly knew he would not lie. “Mart Ray,” he said quietly, “of the Double A.”

  “That’s a lie!” The girl flashed back. “What are you saying?”

  “You got any proof of that?” Jerry demanded hotly. “You’re talkin’ about a friend of our’n.”

  “He was a friend of mine, too.” Gary explained about Mart Ray. “Why don’t you turn me loose?” he suggested then. “I’ll go get Ray and bring him to you. Chances are Slagle and Tobe will be with him.”

  “You’ll get him?” Jerry snorted. “That’s a good one, that is!”

  “Tie him,” Dan Blaze said suddenly. “We’ll go into Salt Creek.”

  Riding behind Dan Blaze was his niece, whom he heard them call Kitty, Jim Gary was suddenly aware, almost for the first time, of the danger he was in. The fact that it had been averted for the moment was small consolation, for these were hard, desperate men, and one of them, perhaps more, had been slain.

  Fear was something strange to him, and while he had known danger, it had passed over him leaving him almost untouched. This situation conveyed only a sense of unreality, and until now the idea that he might really be in danger scarcely seemed credible. Listening to these men, his mind changed about that. He realized belatedly that he was in the greatest danger of his life. If he had none of their talk to warn him, the mute evidence of Jeeter’s body was enough. And Jeeter had died yelling to him, trying to give him a warning so he might escape.

  Now fear rode with him, a cold, clammy fear that stiffened his fingers and left his mouth dry and his stomach empty. Even the sight of the scattered buildings of the town of Salt Creek did not help, and when they rode up the street, the red of embarrassment crept up his neck at the shame of being led into the town, his hands tied behind him, like a cheap rustler.

  Mart Ray was sitting on the steps, and he shoved his hat back and got to his feet. Beside him was Red Slagle. There was no sign of Tobe Langer. “Howdy, Dan! What did you catch? A hoss thief?” Ray’s voice was genial, his eyes bland. “Looks like a big party for such a small catch.”

  Blaze reined in his horse and stopped the little cavalcade. His eyes went from Mart to Slagle. “How long you been here, Red?” he demanded.

  “Me?” Slagle was innocent. “No more’n about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Just rode in from the Double A. Somethin’ wrong?”

  Blaze turned his cold eyes on Jim Gary and then looked back to Ray. “We found a herd of Slash Four cattle east of here, Mart. They were wearin’ a Double A brand worked over our Slash Four. How do you explain it?”

  Ray shrugged. “I don’t,” he said simply. “How does that hombre you got with you explain it?”

  Kitty Blaze spoke up quickly. “Mart, did you ever see this man before? Did you?”

  Ray stared at Gary. “Not that I recall,” he said seriously. “He sure don’t look familiar to me!”

  “Blaze,” Gary said suddenly, “if you’ll turn my hands loose and give me a gun, I can settle this in three minutes! I can prove he’s a liar! I can prove that he does know me an’ that I know him!”

  “There’s nothin’ you can prove with a gun you can’t prove without it!” Blaze said flatly. “Whatever you know, spill it! Else you’re gettin’ your neck stretched! I’m tired of this fussin’ around!”

  Jim Gary kneed his horse forward. His eyes were hot and angry. “Mart,” he said, “I always suspected there was a streak of coyote in you, but I never knowed you’d be this low-down. I don’t like to remind anybody of what I done for him, but I recall a stampede I hauled you out of. Are you goin’ to talk?”

  Ray shook his head, smiling. “This is a lot of trouble, Dan. Take him away and stretch his neck before I get sore and plug him.”

  “You’d be afraid to meet me with a gun, Mart. You always were afraid!” Jim taunted. “That’s why you left Red and Tobe with the cattle. You wanted the profit but none of the trouble! Well, you’ve got trouble now! If I had a gun I’d see you eat dirt!”

  Mart Ray’s face was ugly. “Shut up, you fool! You call me yellow? Why, everybody knows you’re yellow as—!” He caught himself abruptly, his face paling under the tan.

  “What was that, Ray?” Dan Blaze’s face had sharpened. “Ever’body knows what about him? If you’ve never seen him before, how could you say ever’body calls him yellow?”

  Ray shrugged. “Just talkin’ too fast, that’s all!” He turned and stepped up on the sidewalk. “He’s your man. You settle your own war.” Ray turned to go, but Jim yelled at him, and Ray wheeled.

  “Mart, if I don’t know you, how do I know you’ve got a white scar down your right side, a scar made by a steer’s hoof?”

  Ray laughed, but it was a strained laugh. He looked trapped now, and he took an involuntary step backward. “That’s silly!” he scoffed. “I’ve no such scar!”

  “Why not take off your shirt?” Jerry said suddenly. “That will only take a minute.” The lean-jawed cowhand’s face was suddenly hard. “I think I remember you having such a scar, from one time I seen you swimmin’ in the San Juan. Take off your shirt an’ let’s see!”

  Mart Ray backed up another step, his face sharp and cold. “I’ll be damned if I take off my shirt in the street for any low-down rustler!” he snapped. “This here nonsense has gone far enough!”

  “Loose my hands!” Jim pleaded in a whisper. “I’ll take his shirt off!”

  Kitty stared at him. Her face was white and strained, but in her eyes he now saw a shadow of
doubt. Yet it was Jerry who acted suddenly, jerking him around before anyone realized what he had done and severing the bonds with a razor-sharp knife and jerking the ropes from his hands. With almost the same gesture, he slammed guns in Gary’s holsters. “All right! Maybe I’m crazy!” he snapped. “But go to it!”

  The whole action had taken less than a minute, and Mart Ray had turned his back and started away while Blaze waited in indecision. It was Red Slagle who saw Jim Gary hit the ground. “Boss!” he yelled. His voice was suddenly sharp with panic. “Look out!”

  Ray wheeled, and when he saw Gary coming toward him, chafing his wrists, he stood still, momentarily dumbfounded. Then he laughed. “All right, yellow! You’re askin’ for it! This is one bunch of trouble you can’t duck! You’ve ducked your last fight!”

  Furious, he failed to realize the import of his words, and he dropped into a half crouch, his hands ready above his gun butts. It was Jerry who shook him, Jerry who made the casual remark that jerked Mart Ray to realization of what he was facing.

  “Looks like whatever Ray knows about him, he sure ain’t heard about Jim Gary killin’ Miguel Sonoma!”

  Mart Ray was staggered. “Sonoma?” he gasped. “You killed Sonoma?”

  Jim Gary was facing him now. Some of the numbness was gone from his hands, and something cold and terrible was welling up within him. He had ridden beside this man, shared food with him, worked with him, and now the man had tricked and betrayed him.

  “Yes, Mart, I killed Sonoma. I ain’t afraid. I never was. I just don’t like trouble!”

  Ray’s tongue touched his lips and his eyes narrowed to slits. He sank a little deeper into the crouch, and men drew away to the sides of the street. Scarcely twenty feet apart, the two faced each other. “Take off your shirt, Ray. Take it off and show them. Reach up slow an’ unbutton it. You take it off yourself, or I’ll take it off your body!”

  “Go to blazes!” Ray’s voice was hoarse and strange. Then, with incredible swiftness, his hands dropped for his guns.