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

by Louis L'Amour

Blue laughed. “You do speak out. What if I don’t aim to give you none of it?”

  Rod Morgan rested both hands on the table. He was not smiling. “Friend, I’m grateful for telling me my girl friend was in Cordova, but half of whatever you find is enough. The gold is on my land, but if you find it you keep half. You try to leave with all of it, and you’ll have to shoot your way out.”

  Blue chuckled. “Of course, you might not find it so easy as with Hart. I shuck a gun pretty good myself, and I’ve had a bit more experience.” He cut off a slice of beef and placed it between two pieces of bread. “What you going to do with your half?”

  “Buy cattle, stock this place, fix it up a mite, then hire a few hands.”

  Blue nodded approvingly. “Canny. Makes sense. Easy money is soon gone without a sensible plan.” He looked up at Rod. “Don’t want a partner, do you? I’d like to work into a setup like this, and I’m a top hand, even though I don’t look it.”

  “I’d have to think about it,” Rod said. He looked at the big man again, puzzled by something he could not define. There was more to this man than there seemed on the surface, but his impression was the man would be a square shooter. “It might be a good idea,” he said, “but I wouldn’t take any man in with me who didn’t realize what he was getting into.”

  “Son,” Blue said, “don’t you pay that no mind. I’ve had wool in my teeth. I’m not one to hunt trouble, but I’ve stood alone many’s the time. When I’m pushed I can back my play. You an’ me together, we could show them a thing or two.”

  Rod shoved back his chair. “I’m riding to town now. Want to come along?”

  Jed Blue picked his teeth with a straw. He shoved back his own chair. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “I reckon I might as well get acquainted.”

  As they passed through the bottleneck Blue gestured off toward the open country. “There’s a passel of mavericks in the canyons and draws east of here. A couple of good men could build a herd real fast.”

  “That’s a good way to get a chance to make hair bridles. You start that and they’d have us in a rockwalled garden.”

  “No,” Blue said seriously, “most of this stock is over a year old and unbranded. It’s for anybody. A few weeks of hard work and we could make a drive, sell out, and have some working capital.”

  They rode in silence, Rod preoccupied with thoughts of Loma. It had been two years since he had seen her, but now that she was near he was excited, eager to see her, but worried, too. He knew now that he wanted her more than anything in life, realizing how much he had stifled thoughts of her so he could build for their future. Now that she had come west, her mind had been poisoned against him, and she had seen him kill a man without knowing anything of what came before.

  Cordova lay flat and still under a baking sun. The mountains drew back disdainfully from the desert town, leaving it to fry in its own sweat and dust. A spring wagon was receiving a load of supplies in front of the general store, and a half-dozen horses stood three-legged at the hitching rail of the Gem Saloon. Jed Blue glanced over at Rod.

  “More than likely she’ll be at Em Shipton’s. It’s about the only place a decent woman can stay. Want me to ride along?”

  “Wait for me at the Gem, if you can stand their whiskey.”

  Turning the gray toward Em Shipton’s, he felt all tight inside. He dismounted, stalling a little bit, afraid of what Loma might say. All his hopes, all his dreams were bound up in her. He walked up the slatted boardwalk and entered the boarding house.

  Loma was standing at the end of the table in what seemed to be serious conversation with Mark Brewer.

  “Rod! Oh, Rod!”

  Yet even as he moved toward her he saw her eyes change as they fell to his gun.

  He took her hands. “It has been a long time, too long.”

  Suddenly she seemed uncertain, she half turned from him. “Mark? Have you met Rod Morgan?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Brewer’s voice was cool, but not unfriendly. “How are you, Morgan?”

  Rod nodded. She had called him Mark. “Very well, thanks.” His tone sounded less cordial than he intended.

  “I am surprised to see you in town,” Brewer commented. “You know, I suppose, that Dally Hart is gunning for you?”

  “Is he?” Loma’s hands had gone cold in his. She withdrew them gently. “But that isn’t unusual in Cordova, is it? Hasn’t someone been gunning for me ever since I settled in Buckskin Run? And I don’t mean the Harts or any of the small fry.”

  “Just who do you mean?”

  “If I knew that I’d go call on him and ask some questions. Now would you mind leaving us alone? I’d like to talk to Loma.”

  Mark smiled, but there was a taunting amusement in his eyes. “Now why should I leave you alone? Miss Day is to be my wife.”

  Rod felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. His eyes turned, unbelievingly, to Loma’s. Her eyes fell before his. Then she looked up.

  “Rod, I want you to understand. I like you ever so much, but all this killing … I couldn’t understand it, and Mark has been so kind. I hadn’t seen you, and—”

  “There’s nothing to explain.” He was in control again. “You are as bad as the rest of them. As for you, Brewer, you’ve done your work well. You’ve taken advantage of the fact that Loma doesn’t understand the West, nor the situation here. You sneaked, connived, and probably lied.”

  “Don’t try to bully me into a shooting, Morgan! I am not even wearing a gun.”

  Loma was coldly furious. “Rod Morgan! To think you would dare to speak like that! Mark hasn’t lied. He has been honest and sincere. He told me not to believe all they said about you, but to wait and ask. He said I should see what men like Henry Childs thought of you, and—”

  “Childs? Childs, did you say? Didn’t you know it was Childs and the Block C who was fighting me?”

  He looked over at Brewer. “You’re welcome to her, Brewer. If she can go back on one man so easily, she will go back on another.”

  “If I was wearing a gun—”

  “What then? If you like, I’ll take mine off.”

  “I am not a cheap brawler. You had better go now. I think you have made Miss Day unhappy enough.”

  Rod Morgan turned sharply away, and started for the door. Behind him he half-heard a stifled cry as if she were calling out to him, but he did not turn.

  He had just reached his horse when he saw Jed Blue. Without waiting for an explanation, he turned toward him, knowing what was about to happen.

  “Son,” Blue spoke quietly, “Dally Hart’s over there. He says he’ll shoot on sight.”

  “Let him! I’m in the mood for it! If he wants trouble, he sure picked the right time. I’m sick of being pushed around, and if I’m to have the name of a killer I might as well pay my dues.”

  “Watch yourself, son!” Blue said. “There may be more than one. I’ll try to cover you, but keep your eyes open.”

  Rod Morgan started up the street, spurs jingling as he walked. Inside he was boiling, but he knew he must steady down, for Dally Hart was a dangerous man, much more so than his brother Reuben had been. Suddenly he found himself hating everything around him. He had come to the town a friendly stranger, asking no favors of anyone, and almost from the first he had faced dislike and even hatred. Someone, he was sure, was guiding the feeling against him, disclaiming the stories yet repeating them, and that person could be he who had killed both Tolbert and Weisl.

  That person might also be the one who knew where the gold was buried, knew what had happened so long ago in Buckskin Run.

  But who could possibly know? How could he know? He … or was it she?

  At that instant Rod Morgan saw Dally Hart.

  The gunman had been standing behind a horse; now he stepped into the open with his back to the sun, putting the full glare in Rod’s eyes.

  They were over a hundred yards apart, but Rod was walking swiftly. Sights and sounds were wiped from his world, and all he could see w
as the slim, tall figure with the high-crowned hat standing in the middle of the street.

  Vaguely, he was aware that men had come from the stores and were lining the street, oblivious of the danger of ricocheting bullets. Dust arose in little puffs as he walked, and he could feel the heat of the sun on his face. His body seemed strangely light, but each foot seemed to fall hard to the ground as he walked.

  He was going to kill this man. Suddenly all the hatred, the trouble and confusion seemed to center in the slim man with the taunting, challenging eyes and the hatchet face who was awaiting him.

  He was sixty yards away, forty yards. Rod saw Dally’s fingers spread a little. Thirty yards. The expression on Hart’s face changed; his tongue touched his lips. Rod was walking fast, closing the distance.

  Twenty yards, eighteen, sixteen—

  There were men, he knew, who, proud of their marksmanship, preferred distance for their shooting, but as the distance grew less and less they became aware that at short range neither man was likely to miss. Luke Short, the Dodge City gunfighter, always crowded his foes, crowded them until they lost their poise and began to back up to get distance.

  Fourteen yards—

  Dally Hart’s nerve broke and he went for his gun. Incredibly fast, and the gun lifted in a smooth, unbroken movement. It came level and flowered with sudden flame, then his own gun bucked in his hand, and bucked again.

  Dally Hart wavered, then steadied. Something was wrong with his face. His gun came up and he fired. A blow struck Morgan. His legs went weak under him, and he fired again. Hart’s face seemed to turn dark, then crimson, and the gunman toppled into the dust.

  From somewhere behind him a gun bellowed and as from a great distance he heard Jed Blue saying, “That was one! Who will be the next to die?”

  There was a rectangle of sunlight lying inside the cabin door, and beyond it Rod could see the green, waving grass of Buckskin Run. He could hear the muted sound of the stream as it boiled over the rocks, gathering force to charge the bottleneck.

  He was home, in his own cabin. He turned his head. Everything was as he had last seen it, except for one thing. There was another bed across the room, a bed carefully made up. The table was scrubbed clean, the room freshly swept. He wondered about that, wondered vaguely how long he had been here and who had brought him back.

  In the midst of his wondering he fell asleep, and when he again opened his eyes it was dark beyond the door and a lamp glowed on the table. He could hear vague movements, a rustling as of garments, and he felt that if he lay still he would soon see whoever was in the room.

  While he was waiting he fell asleep again, and when he awakened it was morning again and sunlight was shining through the doorway. Then he saw something else. Jed Blue was crouched near the window but well out of sight. The door was barred, and someone was moving about outside.

  Rod started to lift himself up when he heard a voice he recognized as Josh Shipton’s. “Halloo, in there? Anybody to home?”

  Blue made no reply. It was grotesque to see the big man crouching in silence. What was he afraid of? What could Jed Blue possibly fear from Shipton? Yet it was obvious Blue did not wish to be seen.

  After a while Jed Blue stood up and, standing first to one side and then to the other, peered out the window. After a careful look around, he unbarred the door. Rod hastily closed his eyes, then, after a bit, stirred on the bed and simulated awakening. When he opened his eyes the big, bearded man was standing over him.

  “Coming out of it, are you?’

  “What happened?”

  “You killed Dally Hart, but he got two bullets into you. I was almighty busy for a few minutes, and had to pack you out of town before I could patch you up. You lost a sight of blood, and the trip back here didn’t do you any good.”

  “You were in it, too, weren’t you? I thought I heard you shoot.”

  “That Block C coyote Bob Carr tried to shoot you in the back. After he went down I had to hold a gun on the others whilst we rolled our tails out of town.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A week or so. You were in a bad way.”

  “Any other trouble?”

  “Some. Jake Sarran, that Block C ramrod, rode in here with a dozen hands. Said as soon as you could ride you were to get out, and they weren’t warning you again.”

  “To Hell with that! I’m staying.”

  “Want a partner? My offer still stands.”

  “Why not? We’re cut from the same leather, I think.”

  Rod was silent. He wanted to ask about Loma, but was ashamed to. He waited, hoping Blue would offer some hint as to what had happened to her. Was she married? Rod sighed, trying not to think of her. After all, she had thrown him over for Mark Brewer. Still, he had to make allowances. After all, she hadn’t seen him in two years, then to hear nothing but bad about him, and then to see him kill another man—

  His thoughts shifted to the vanished wagons and the gold, then to the strange actions of Jed Blue when Shipton came around.

  Why had Blue not wished to be seen by Josh Shipton? Or had there been others outside, and Josh simply the bait to draw him out to be killed? It was possible.

  Despite his curiosity he had no doubt there was a sensible explanation, and had no doubts about his new partner. After all, the man had saved his life, had gotten him out of town when they would certainly have either killed him or let him die. Few men would dare challenge the power of the Block C, and from the memory of the horses he had seen he knew the Block C had been out in force.

  Lying there through the long day he tried to find an answer for the Block C’s enmity for him; so much hatred could not stem from his original fight with Carr, nor even the shooting of Reuben Hart, which had been forced on him.

  Behind it there had to be a reason, and he had a hunch the trouble stemmed from the man he had never seen—Henry Childs himself.

  Hour after hour, as he lay in bed, he tried to find answers to the problem of the gold and the wagons. Three men had died and been buried, three wagons had vanished along with much gold and gear. It was not until the last day he was in bed that the idea came to him, an idea so fantastic that at first he could not believe it could be possible; yet the more he considered it, the more it seemed the only possible solution.

  He was recovering rapidly, and when he could sit outside in the sun, even walk a little by favoring his bad leg, he could see many evidences of Jed Blue’s work. Certainly the big man did not intend just to come along for the ride.

  A comfortable bench had been built, encircling a large tree close to the house, a shady, comfortable place in which to sit. A new workbench stood near the log barn, and a parapet of stones had been built, fastened with some home-made mortar. This parapet faced the canyon entrance, and had loopholes for firing. It had been built, however, so it could not be used by anyone attacking the house, for a rifleman from the house could command both sides of it, because of the angle at which it was built.

  A water-barrel had been moved into the house and kept full. Several steers had been slaughtered, and the meat jerked. It was hung up inside the house. Every precaution had been taken for a full-scale siege, if it came to that.

  On a shelf near the door were several boxes of pistol and rifle ammunition. Obviously, Blue had been to town, so he must know what had become of Loma.

  On the fourth day on which Rod could be outside he saddled the gray and, getting a steel hook from the odds and ends on the workbench in the blacksmith shop, he took an extra length of rope and rode up the canyon toward the basin. Blue had left early and Rod had talked with him but a few minutes. He supposed the other man had ridden to town, but Jed had said nothing about his destination.

  Rod was quite sure he knew now what had become of the vanished wagons. Come what may, in the next few hours he would know for sure.

  He understood something else. Both Weisl and Tolbert had been killed in the canyon, and both apparently after arriving at a solution or coming close to
it. He would have to be very, very careful!

  Rod Morgan’s sudden appearance at Em Shipton’s had startled and upset Loma. Try as she might, she could not get his face from her mind, nor the hurt expression on his face when Mark told him she was to marry him, Mark Brewer.

  She had been standing in the boardinghouse when she heard the shots, and she had rushed to the door, panic-stricken that Rod might have been killed or hurt. Mark Brewer caught her arm and stopped her.

  “Better not go out! You might be killed! It is always the innocent ones who are hurt, and it is probably just Rod Morgan killing somebody else.”

  He had drawn her to him and kissed her lightly before turning to the door. She learned two things in that instant. She did not like to be kissed by Mark Brewer, and he had lied. He was carrying a gun. He was carrying it in a shoulder holster, for it pressed against her when she was in his arms.

  She knew all about shoulder holsters because her uncle had been a plainclothes detective at a time when they were first beginning to be used in the East. She had not seen one since coming west.

  Why had he lied? Was he afraid of Rod? Or did he merely wish to avoid trouble? Yet the lie worried her. There seemed to be something underhanded about that gun, for she had heard several times that Mark Brewer never wore a gun. Apparently no one believed he wore a gun, yet certainly he did.

  The thought rankled as the days went by. She heard that Rod had killed Dally Hart and Jed Blue had killed Bob Carr. It was not until the third day that she heard that Rod Morgan had been seriously wounded and that Jed Blue had carried him out of town.

  He might be dead! Horrified, she for the first time considered her own situation. She knew none of these people. Rod she had known for a long time. He had always been a gentleman and a fine man. Could he change so quickly? Or was something else happening here of which she knew nothing?

  Coming downstairs from her room at Em Shipton’s, she heard Rod’s name mentioned in the dining room and stopped on the steps.

  The voice was that of Jeff Cordell, whom she knew as one of the four men who had faced Rod that day beside the stage.