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

by Louis L'Amour

  Realization flooded over Matt Calou like a cold shower. Wheeling his horse, he started back up the meadow and had gone only a short distance when he came upon a Slash D steer! That was the brand of Dyer, the saloon keeper. Farther along he found another Slash D and three KRs. Grinning with satisfaction, he retraced his steps and rode back to his own ranch.

  Sue was in the kitchen and a frying pan was sizzling with bacon and eggs when he returned.

  “Eggs!” He grinned at her. “Those are the first eggs I’ve seen in months!”

  “We keep a few chickens,” she replied, “and I thought I’d surprise you.” She dished up a plate of the eggs and bacon, then poured coffee. “You’d better get ready to leave, young man. Foster, of the Pitchfork, is coming over here with his crowd and the crowd from Wagonstop. They say they’ll run you out of the country!”

  Calou chuckled. “Let ’em come! I’m ready for ’em now!”

  “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she said, studying him curiously. “What’s happened?”

  “Wait an’ see!” he teased. “Just wait!”

  “You’ve been working,” she said. “What are you going to do with that pasture you dragged?”

  “Plant it to crops. After a few years of that I’ll let it go back to grass. That will take care of the loco weed.”

  “Crops take water.”

  “We’ll have lots of water! Plenty of it! Enough for the crops, all the stock, an’ baths every night for ourselves and the kids.”

  She was startled. “Ourselves?”

  “My wife and myself.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had a wife!” She stared at him.

  “I haven’t one, but I sure aim to get one now. I’ve got one in mind. One that will be the mother of fifteen or twenty kids.”

  “Fifteen or twenty? You’re crazy!”

  “I like big families. I’m the youngest of twelve boys. Anyway, I got a theory about raisin’ ’em. It’s like this—”

  “It will have to wait.” Sue put her hand on his arm. “Here they are.”

  Matt Calou got to his feet. He was, she realized suddenly, wearing a tied-down gun. His rifle was beside the front door and standing alongside it was a shotgun.

  Outside she could see the tall, lean figure of Foster of the Pitchfork and beside him were Russell, Knauf, and a half dozen others. Then, coming up behind them, she saw Old Man Karr, Dyer, and Wente. With them were a dozen riders.

  Matt stepped into the door. “Howdy, folks! Glad to have visitors! I was afraid my neighbors thought I had hydrophobia!”

  There were no answering smiles. “We’ve come to give you a start out of the country, Calou!” Foster said. “We want nobody livin’ here!”

  Calou smiled, but his eyes were cold as they measured the tall man on the bay horse. “Thoughtful of you, Foster, but I’m stayin’, an’ if you try to run me off, you’ll have some empty saddles, one of which will be a big bay.

  “Fact is, I like this place. Once I get a well down, I’ll make an easier livin’ than you do, Foster.”

  Something in his tone stiffened Foster and he looked sharply at Matt Calou. Russell moved up beside him and Knauf faded to the left, for a flanking shot.

  For a moment there was silence, and Matt Calou laughed, his voice harsh. “Didn’t like the sound of that, did you, Foster? I don’t reckon your neck feels good inside of hemp, does it? I wonder just what did kill Art Horan, Foster? Was it you? Or did he just get suddenly curious an’ come back to find out what happened to all the lost cattle?”

  Dyer stared from Calou to Foster, obviously puzzled. “This I don’t get,” he said. “What’s all this talk?”

  “Tell him, Foster. You know what I mean.”

  Foster was trapped. He glanced to right and left, then back to the author of his sudden misery. This was what he had feared if Matt Calou or anyone lived on the Rafter H. His fingers spread on his thigh.

  Sue spoke suddenly from a window to the right of the door. “Knauf,” she said, “I know why you moved, an’ I’ve got a double-barreled shotgun that will blow you out of your saddle if you lay a hand on your gun!”

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Old Man Karr demanded irritably. “What’s he talkin’ about, Foss?”

  “If he won’t tell you”—Matt Calou suddenly stepped out of the door—“I will. While you folks have been tellin’ yourselves ghost stories about Black Mesa, Foster has been bleedin’ the range of your cattle.”

  “You lie!” Foster roared. “You lie like—!” He grabbed for his gun and Matt Calou fired twice. The first shot knocked the gun from Foster’s suddenly bloody hand, and the second notched his ear. It was a bullet that would have killed Foster had he not flinched from the hand wound.

  Russell’s face was pale as death and he gripped the pommel hard with both hands.

  Dyer’s face was stern. “All right, Calou! You clear this up an’ fast or there’ll be a necktie party right here, gun or no gun.”

  “Your cattle,” Matt explained coolly, “hunted water an’ found it where nobody knew there was any. Then Foster found your cattle. Ever since then he’s been sweepin’ that draw ever’ few days, takin’ up all the cattle he found there, regardless of brand. You lost cattle, but you saw no marks of rustlin’, no tracks, no reason to suspect anybody. An’ you were all too busy blamin’ Black Mesa for all your troubles. Your cattle drifted that way an’ never came back, an’ Foster was gettin’ rich. All he had to do was ride down that draw back of Black Mesa, just beyond the chaparral.

  “As for Black Mesa, the reason you thought you saw something movin’ up there was because you did see something. The cows that they originally had on the Rafter H are up there, I imagine.”

  “That ain’t possible!” Old Man Karr objected. “Not even a man could climb that tower!”

  “There’s a crack on the other side, an undercut that makes a fairly easy trail up. Cattle have been grazin’ up there for years, an’ there’s several square miles of good graze up there.”

  Foster got clumsily from the saddle and commenced to struggle with his hand. One of the men got down to help him. Old Man Karr chewed angrily at his mustache, half resenting the exploded fears of the mountain. Dyer hesitated, then looked down at Matt. “Guess we been a passel o’ fools, stranger,” he said. “The drinks are on us.”

  Dyer looked down at Foster. “But I reckon it’s a good thing we brought along a rope.”

  Foster paled under his deep tan. “Give me a break, Dyer!” he pleaded. “I’ll pay off! I got records! Sure, I done it, an’ I was a fool, but it was an awful temptation. I was broke when I started, an’ then—”

  “We’ll have an accounting,” Wente said stiffly, “then we’ll decide. If you can take care of our losses, we might make a deal.”

  Together, Matt and Sue watched them walk away. “If you didn’t want fifteen or twenty children,” she suggested tentatively, “I know a girl who might be interested.”

  Matt grinned. “How about six?”

  “I guess that’s not too many.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist. “Then consider your proposal accepted.”

  Sunlight bathed the rim of Black Mesa with a sudden halo. A wide-eyed range cow lowed softly to her calf, unaware of mystery. The calf stumbled to its feet, brushing a white, curved fragment, fragile as a leaf.

  It was the weathered lip of an ancient baked clay jar.

  The Passing of Rope Nose

  To err is human, and Bill McClary was all too human, which accounted for the fact that the six-shooter pride of the Big Bend lay flat on his face in the bottom of a sandy draw with a hole in his head.

  McClary was a reckless and ambitious young man known from Mescal to Muleshoe as fast on the draw, and finding that punching cows failed to support him in a style to which he wanted to become accustomed, he acquired a proclivity for cashing in his six-shooter at various cow country banks. To say that this practice was frowned upon by the hardworking sons of the sagebr
ush was putting it mildly, and Ranger Johnny Sutton had been called upon to correct McClary’s impression that the country owed him a living.

  Now the Big Bend of the Rio Grande has spawned some tough characters, and during his brief hour in the sun Bill McClary had been accounted by all, including himself, as one of the toughest. For a long time McClary had been hearing of Sutton, and had memorized descriptions of him until he knew he would recognize the Ranger at once. He had long entertained the idea that Johnny Sutton was an overrated four-flusher, an impression he was determined to substantiate.

  He had dismounted in that draw south of Nine Point Mesa and waited, smoking a cigarette in cheerful anticipation of the early demise of one Texas Ranger.

  Sutton appeared, riding a zebra dun that had an eye full of hell and alkali, and McClary duly informed him that he was going to blow his head off, and would he dismount and take it on the ground?

  Johnny, being in an agreeable mood and aware that a fool must follow his natural bent, dismounted. Bill McClary dropped his cigarette, pushed it into the sand with a boot toe, and then with the cheerful smile for which he had been noted, reached for his gun.

  The debate was brief, definite, and decisive. Johnny Sutton’s Peacemaker put a period to the discussion, and Bill McClary paid for his mistake, cashing in his chips with a memory engraved on his mind of a Colt that appeared from nowhere and the realization, too late, that being the fastest man in the Big Bend did not make him the fastest in Texas.

  As a result of the affair in the draw, Ranger Sutton found himself in possession of two saddlebags stuffed with gold coin and bills to the tune of seven thousand dollars, which is a nice tune on any sort of instrument. It is also a sum for one hundredth of which a man could be murdered in any yard of the miles between the Rio Grande and the Davis Mountains.

  Moreover, there were in the vicinity several hard customers who knew what McClary had been packing, and would guess what Sutton was bringing back in those extra-heavy saddlebags. Due north of him, and awaiting with keen anticipation any well-heeled passing stranger, was the outlaw town of Paisano. In the choice between a hot meal in Paisano to a cold night among the cat claw and prickly pear, Paisano won hands down, and late in the day Johnny Sutton rode into the dusty main street.

  To Rope Nose George, proprietor of the Mustang Saloon, the arrival of Johnny Sutton posed a problem of the first order. Rope Nose was unofficial boss of Paisano, the official boss being Pink Lucas, but Lucas was below the border on a raid. Rope Nose was disturbed, for he recognized Sutton the moment the dun stopped in front of the saloon, and he guessed what he carried. Now the guns of a Ranger are feared, yet seven thousand dollars has been known to turn many a yellow streak into the deep red of battle lust. This Rope Nose realized, and with misgivings.

  He was aware that the town of Paisano existed solely because the Rangers had ignored it, being busy with immediate problems, but he was quite sure that if a Ranger were killed in Paisano the town would instantly be awarded first place on the list of Ranger business. In fact, even those not given to superstition in any form were willing to testify that killing a Ranger was bad luck.

  Johnny Sutton carried his saddlebags when he came through the doors. With scarcely a glance at the hangers-on, he stepped to the bar. “Howdy, George! Mine will be rye, a meal, and a bed. How about it?”

  “Sure thing! Surest thing you know, Mr. Sutton.” George spoke that name loud enough so anyone in the room would know who had arrived and be hesitant to start anything. Seven thousand or no seven thousand, Rope Nose wanted nothing so much as to get the Ranger out of town.

  Hurriedly, he put the glass on the bar, and a bottle beside it. “There’s a good room right at the head of the stairs,” he whispered confidentially. “You’ll like it there.” He hesitated, his curiosity struggling with his better judgment, and the better judgment lost in one fall. “You … you run into Bill McClary?”

  John Sutton’s black, steady eyes centered on Rope Nose and the saloonkeeper felt a little chill go up his spine. He’d heard about the feeling those eyes inspired and now he was a believer. “Yeah,” Johnny said. “I saw him.”

  “He … he rode on south?” Rope Nose asked hopefully. Personally, he had liked McClary, the most cheerful of a bad lot of bad men, most of them a humorless crowd. “He was goin’ on?”

  “When I last saw him,” Johnny replied, “he didn’t give the impression that he was goin’ anywhere. Fact is,” he added, “I suspect he’s right where I left him.”

  Perk Johnson edged along the bar. “You must be some slick with that gun,” he said admiringly. “Bill always said he aimed to try you on.”

  Sutton’s gaze was frosty. “Bill McClary,” he said, “was a mighty good man with damn bad judgment. I hope bad judgment ain’t contagious around here.”

  The swinging doors smashed open and a little brown bobcat in the shape of a girl rushed through the door. Her eyes were flashing and gray, startling against the deep brown of her face. Her dress was torn and she held a shawl about her shoulders. “Are you the Ranger?” she demanded of Sutton. “If you are, come an’ help me! Some thieves got my pa in the place next door, skinnin’ him in a card game, an’ I found another goin’ through my wagon!”

  There was no maidenly shyness about her. “Well, come on!” she said angrily. “Don’t just stand there!”

  “If your father’s in a poker game he went into it of his own free will, and,” Johnny added, “if he’s your father I figure he’s man enough to take care of himself. No coyote spawned a wildcat.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Are you another of these no-good loafin’ cowhands, or are you a Ranger? They’ve got my pa drunk an’ he can’t see to hold his cards. I went to get him an’ they nearly tore my dress off. You come help me or I’m goin’ back in there with a horsewhip!”

  Sutton tossed off his drink. “Hold that grub, George,” he advised, “an’ open your safe an’ put these saddlebags in it.” As Rope Nose George’s eyes bulged, Sutton added, “And don’t get any ideas. I know just how much there is in there an’ you’re personally accountable for every dime of it!” George’s heart pounded. Seven thousand dollars was the stuff outlaw dreams were made of. He was a notorious coward who lived in fear of both the law and the other men in Pink Lucas’s gang, but this was sorely tempting.

  Sutton watched him stow the bags carefully into the safe, and when the door was closed he turned and followed the girl outside. She said nothing more but walked toward the light from the next door with a free swinging stride.

  She pushed open the door and instantly there was a yell of enthusiasm and a rush. “She’s back, boys! She’s back! Let’s teach that filly a—!”

  The rush stopped so suddenly that one man almost fell down, for Johnny Sutton had stepped through the door after the girl. “Go back an’ sit down!” he ordered. “An’ damn you for a lot of mangy coyotes!”

  Four men sat at a card table. The girl’s father was obvious enough. He was not only so drunk he couldn’t see, but two men were holding him upright in his chair and one of them was playing his cards. Johnny crossed the room and looked them over cynically. The redhead behind the drunken man looked up sheepishly. “Is he winnin’?” Johnny asked dryly.

  The redhead’s flush was deeper. “Well,” he said guiltily, “he ain’t been holdin’ much. Right now he’s losin’. “

  “How much has he lost?”

  Red hesitated, then swallowed. “Right at a thousand dollars,” he confessed, “maybe a mite over.”

  Johnny Sutton’s right eyebrow tightened. The man did not look like he had a thousand cents, much less dollars. “Did he have that much, little lady?”

  “You bet he did!” the girl flashed back at him. “And more, if these blisterin’ pickpockets haven’t stole it off him!”

  Red looked abused, and he let go of the drunken man who slumped over on the table.

  “Whose deal is it?” Johnny asked suddenly.

  Their eyes were puzzled and wary. �
�Mine.” The speaker was a lean-faced man marked with evil and crookedness.

  “All right,” Johnny said calmly, “you boys like this game. You started it. Now deal, and don’t let any of your mistakes keep him from winning back his money.”

  “Now, look here—!” The tall man started to rise but Johnny’s left hand dropped to his shoulder and slammed him back in his chair.

  “Deal!” Sutton insisted. If he chose to make a fight of it, the result might mean a lot less crime in that part of Texas.

  Grudgingly, the man began to deal. It was noteworthy that from that moment the drunken man began to win. Red, devilish in his glee and enjoyment of the reversed situation, bet the old man’s hands recklessly. When thirty minutes had passed the tall man glanced at Sutton. “There, now. He’s won it all back!” He dropped his hands to the table and started to push back.

  “Deal.” Johnny’s voice was flat and dangerous. “Deal those cards. An’ Red, you bet ’em like you see ’em! I like the way you play poker.”

  “He’s got all his money, I tell you!” The tall man’s face was wolfish. “I’ll be damned if I—!”

  Johnny Sutton’s eyes fastened on the man, and they seemed to grow flat and lose their shine. With his free hand he reached out and swept all the money from in front of the players into the middle of the table. “You shuffle the cards, fast boy. You like it that way. Shuffle the cards, then you cut for high card with him. Winner takes all!”

  “Don’t do it, Chiv!” The speaker was a bearded man with a hard set to his jaw. “He can’t get away with this!”

  “You open your face again,” Johnny said calmly, “an’ you’ll have a mouthful of loose teeth. Shuffle those cards, Chiv. This will teach all of you a lesson you’ll remember next time you try to take a harmless old man who’s just passin’ through! Shuffle an’ cut!”

  The man looked at the cards with sudden distaste, then, belligerently, he looked up at Sutton. “This time I cut as I want, and it’s on the level,” he said. “If the old man wins he gets it all, an’ if I win, I do.”