Novel 1969 - Conagher (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  It sounded easy, but it was not that easy, even if a man could leave behind his sense of guilt at having deserted a cause. To be a man was to be responsible. It was as simple as that. To be a man was to build something, to try to make the world about him a bit easier to live in for himself and those who followed.

  You could sneer at that, you could scoff, you could refuse to acknowledge it, but when it came right down to it, Conn decided it was the man who planted a tree, dug a well, or graded a road who mattered.

  He was a loner—he had always been a loner. He was as covered with spines as any porcupine. He was cantankerous and edgy. Outwardly easy-going, he shied away from people, wary of the traps surrounding people that could lead to trouble. Yet once in trouble, he knew of no other way than to fight it out to a finish.

  Conagher had worked too hard too many times to like a thief or a vandal who would steal or destroy the efforts of other men. Maybe in the last analysis what they said of him was true, that he didn’t give a damn—about himself or those who got in his way. He did have a few principles, and he had not thought much about them. They were few, they were simple, they were his. And he lived by them.

  He swung his feet to the floor and fumbled for his socks. He would have to stay put long enough to do some laundry, he decided, looking at a sock. He pulled it on, and then the other, tugged on his boots, and stamped into them.

  He reached for his gunbelt, slung it about his hips, and went to the door.

  The bullet struck the door jamb, scattering splinters, and he jerked back so sharply he almost fell. Wheeling around, he ran for his Winchester.

  The door was standing open now, but there was no other sound from outside. He glanced at the place where the bullet had hit, and then from well back in the room he knelt down and followed its probable trajectory to a low hill a good four hundred yards away. Back in the shadows of the interior of the bunk house, he studied that hill. Then he moved farther back to the second window, which was well toward the back of the building. As he thought, the view from that window was obscured by the corner posts of the corral and its watering trough.

  There was no sound from the house. The horses were quiet in the corral. Moving around, he studied the view from the two windows on the opposite side of the bunk house.

  Was this an all-out attack? Or was it the work of one disgruntled enemy?

  Where was Johnny McGivern? Where were the Old Man and Leggett? The he remembered: he had sent McGivern into the mountains to recruit Chip Euston if possible.

  The windows on the far side of the bunk house looked toward the stable and to the open range beyond, but Conn distrusted what he saw. That plain out there looked too level and innocent; there could be dips and hollows that could hide the body of a man. He had a hunch that was the idea: first, the shot from the other side, then he was to try to get out on the far side, and when well out of the window he would be killed.

  He moved restlessly from window to window. That man out there on the grass, if there was one, had better be a good Indian, because he was going to have to wait…and wait.

  Conagher liked the look of the corral post and the trough. It was the best cover, but for the time being he would simply watch and wait.

  Nothing moved out there. The bunk house was strongly built and could stand a long attack if necessary. As yet he had not fired a shot, and they might believe he was dead. They had shot as he started to leave the door, and he had fallen back out of sight. If they did believe it they would soon come to investigate.

  The floor of the bunk house was puncheon and did not squeak, so they could not hear any movements within. A slow half-hour passed. He poured a cup of coffee from the pot that sat on the stove. It was strong and scalding, but it tasted good.

  He was in no hurry. Conn Conagher had lived through too many range wars, too many Indian troubles to hurry. He knew how those men felt out there in the open. They had taken up their positions before daylight, and they had now been waiting three hours or more. During all that time they had had a chance to fire only once.

  The night had been cold, but the chill was leaving the air now, and it would be getting warm out there. No doubt they had water, but he had shelter, coffee, and plenty of ammunition. Let ’em wait.

  Nevertheless, he went from window to window, always remaining well back in the room where there was less chance of being seen. There was a limit to patience, unless you were an Indian, or Conn Conagher.

  Suddenly he saw movement, or rather the shadow of movement beyond the corral. Somebody had crept along the ground close to the corral on the opposite side, and was nearing a post at the corner identical with the one Conn had planned to use for cover. From the window where he now watched he could not see the crawler, but he could see tiny puffs of dust from his movements. There was a chance that when he reached the end of the corral, with the protection of the post and the buttressing posts that strengthened the corners, he would rise to a standing position. And when he did he would show a portion of his body between the poles of the corral.

  Conagher took a quick run around the windows, glancing out, and then came back. Again he saw a tiny puff of dust. He eased the window up, and it made no sound. Carefully, he took aim at the opening that seemed to offer the best chance. He took up the slack on the trigger, set his sight picture on a point of the gap nearest the post, and waited.

  Perspiration trickled down his cheek, down his neck. The morning had grown warmer and he was close to the stove. He held his slack and continued to wait.

  Suddenly a spot of blue showed where he held his aim, and he squeezed off his shot.

  He heard the thud of the bullet, for the man was no more than sixty feet away. The thud sounded so loud that for a moment he believed he had hit one of the poles, but then he heard the clatter of a rifle against the poles as it fell, and the moan of a man who has been hard hit.

  It was the first shot he had fired, and only the second shot fired since the attack began.

  There were no answering shots, and there was no movement. For several minutes he waited, moving from window to window, expecting an attack now…or would they still wait, perhaps until dark?

  Suddenly he heard a shuddering groan from the man beyond the corral.

  “You hit bad?” he asked, hoping his voice would carry no further than the wounded man.

  “Yes, damn you!”

  “Well, you came askin’ for it. I didn’t put out no invitations.”

  There was no reply, and after a bit he said, “If you want to call your friends, I’ll let ’em come get you, but the first one who lifts a gun gets killed.”

  “They won’t believe you.”

  “That’s your problem. I’ll see no man suffer, and whoever you are, I’d advise you if you live through this to get yourself some new friends…if they don’t come after you.”

  “I can’t…I couldn’t make ’em hear.”

  The injured man’s voice sounded weak, and Conagher moved to the door and called out: “You got a hurt man down here. If you want to come get him, leave your rifles behind and come on. I’ll kill the first man who tries a shot.”

  There was a long silence, then all of a sudden a voice rang out, “Hold your fire! I’m coming down!”

  The man stood up, half crouching as if ready to fall back, but when there was no shot he came on, slowly at first. He was young, curly-haired…Conagher had heard of him. Scott, his name was, a new recruit.

  “He ain’t turned sour yet,” Conagher said. “There’s a chance for him.”

  He spoke to himself, but he said it loud enough for the wounded man to hear, if he was conscious. Conagher’s shot probably had gone through his body side to side, but that was only a guess. When he had fired he thought he saw the tips of the cartridges in the man’s belt just under his aiming point, but he could not be sure.

  Scott was coming on down the slope. He had slowed some more, but he was walking along.

  “The boy’s got sand,” Conagher said, speaking aloud a
gain, “and he’s got some show-off in him, too. He’s taking this like a big Injun.”

  Scott had reached the wounded man now, and he stood up straight. “You inside! I can’t carry this man! He’d die before we’d gone any distance. He’s gut-shot, and bad.”

  Was it a trick? Conagher wasn’t worried about tricks. Those that he hadn’t used himself had been used on him. “All right, kid, bring him on inside.”

  “You want me to drop my gunbelt?”

  “You keep your gun. And if you feel lucky, grab for it. I’ll not kill any man who isn’t packing iron.”

  Scott picked up the wounded man and carried him to the bunk-house door, brought him inside, and put him down gently on a bunk.

  The wounded man was Hi Jackson, one of the two men Conagher had encountered at Horse Spring station. Blood soaked the lower part of his shirt and the front of his pants around the belt. The bullet, as Conagher had surmised, had gone in at one side and out the other, and it was an ugly wound.

  Scott’s face was pale. Evidently he had not seen much blood before, and now it was on his own shirt and hands.

  “You can wash up outside the door,” Conagher said, “if you want to chance it.”

  Scott glanced at him. “You must be Conagher. You don’t think much of us, do you?”

  “A bunch of damn two-bit thieves that would rustle an old man’s cows? No, I don’t think much of you. If Smoke Parnell had the guts of a mouse he’d get out and earn himself a living instead of robbing old men.”

  The boy flushed, and Conagher studied him coldly. “No, kid, if you want to know, I don’t see anything a damn bit exciting about what you’re doin’ now. I don’t think it takes nerve, and I don’t think it’s romantic, like some folks seem to think. The outfit you’re tied up with are a bunch of dry-gulchin’ thieves.”

  Scott turned to go. “You better do some thinkin’, boy,” Conagher said. “You look like you had the makings, and it took sand to come down here after this man. Look at your hole card, kid, and quit this bunch.”

  “They’re my friends.”

  “They were his friends, too. They knowed him a lot longer than you have, but who came after him? And who’d come after you? Kid, it’s just pure luck that you’re standin’ here talkin’ with me instead of lyin’ on that bunk, gut-shot.”

  “Can you do anything for him?”

  “Why the hell should I? He was comin’ after me when he got it. But I will, kid, I will because I’m a damn fool, if I can find the time while I’m standin’ off your friends.”

  Conagher moved back, watching the windows. “Your friends are waitin’ until dark when the lot of them can come down here and jump me. Well, I’ve got some money here, boy, and I’ll bet you the stack that I take at least two more, and likely three, and you can be one of them.”

  Scott stood still, his face still pale, anger fighting with indecision. “You can stay here if you like,” Conagher said, “and mind your friend, if friend he is.”

  “You’d trust me?”

  “Not a damn bit. If you made a wrong move I’d shoot you dead in your tracks. But you’re better off down here than out there. You got a chance, kid. You’d better take it.”

  “I…I can’t. I’d be a traitor. I’d be—”

  “A traitor to them? All right, boy, you’ve had your say, now get out and get on back up the hill, but when you come down again, you better be using that gun, because I’m going to be aiming for your guts.”

  “You’re a hard man, Conagher.”

  “This here’s a hard country. But it’s a good country, Scott, and it’ll be better as soon as we hang or shoot a few more thieving skunks.”

  His face white to the lips, Scott went out. He hesitated, then started the long walk up the hill. Conagher watched him go, knowing how long and hard a walk the boy was taking. He was going back to his outlaw companions, when deep down inside he knew he shouldn’t. He was going back out of misplaced loyalty.

  Suddenly Conagher shouted, “Scott, you tell Smoke Parnell that if he has the guts of a jack rabbit he’ll come down here and we’ll shoot it out, man to man. He’s supposed to be gun-handy. Me, I’m just a cow puncher.”

  When Scott got over the crest, Pete Casuse, Tile Coker, and Smoke Parnell were waiting for him. “Took you long enough,” Smoke said. “What happened to Hi?”

  “He’s been shot in the belly. It’s pretty bad, I guess.”

  “Tough, but while Conagher’s carin’ for him he ain’t watchin’ for us?”

  Curly Scott looked at him, then repeated what Conagher had said.

  “I heard him,” Parnell said carelessly, “an’ why should I be a fool? We got him right where we want him, and come dark we’ll go in after him.”

  Curly Scott dropped to the ground. He wished he was anywhere but here. He had seen that man down there. He was unshaven and down at heel, he was no kid, and he was alone, but there was something about him…

  “That’s a tough man down there,” he said quietly, “and we still don’t know where Leggett and Tay are.”

  “Hell, they’ve quit! They taken out durin’ the night. That damn fool down there is fighting for a brand that’s quit him.”

  Conn Conagher, with occasional glances from the window, cleaned up the gunshot and bandaged the man as well as he could with what was at hand.

  He looked toward the house. There had been no sign of life over there. Maybe they had left him. Maybe they had pulled out while he was asleep. Well, no matter—he wasn’t quitting. Maybe he was just too dumb to quit.

  Chapter 10

  *

  THE WOUNDED MAN was muttering, and suddenly he asked for water. Conn brought it to him in the long-handled drinking gourd and held it for him while he drank.

  Hi Jackson looked up at him. “I’m in pretty bad shape, ain’t I?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “You’re Conagher?”

  “Uh-huh.…The kid brought you in—Scott.”

  “He’s…he’s a good boy. He ought to go home.”

  Then Jackson lay quiet, breathing heavily. He’d lost a lot of blood, and Conagher didn’t think he had much time.

  “I got to leave you pretty quick. When it’s dark your outfit will be down here after me.”

  “You ain’t goin’ to make it, Conagher. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know nothing of the kind. But if I don’t make it, they will be buryin’ four or five of your boys with me. They didn’t pick on no pilgrim. I’ve been through this a time or two.”

  Shadows stretched out from the house, gathered in the lee of the bunk house. Now…soon there would be no more time.

  He filled a cup with the black coffee and sipped it while making his rounds of the windows. Then he stuffed his pockets with shells, glanced again at the wounded man, and edged over to the window.

  Again he looked toward the ranch house. Where were Tay and Leggett? Suddenly he glimpsed a shadow, the shadow of a running man. There was no time for a shot, no time for anything.

  He went out the window and made it to the corral corner in a long, swift dive. A man moved near the far corner, and as he moved a rifle shattered the stillness and the running man fell sprawling. Instantly there were three more shots, all of them from the house!

  Another man was down, and Conn could hear somebody swearing.

  Whoever was in the house had wisely held their fire until the attackers expected no danger from that quarter. Two men were down now, and the one in plain sight was dead.

  Crouched at the corner of the corral, Conn saw a flicker of movement—something white. He looked again, and saw that it was a paper tied to a tumbleweed—another message like the one he had found before.

  It was within reach, and he put out a hand and cautiously untied it. It was too dark to read it, and he thrust it carefully down into his pocket.

  The dusk was deceiving. Straining his eyes, he tried to make out some further movement, but there was none.

  In another minute he heard a
whisper. “Tile? Back out…we’re pullin’ away.”

  There was a shuffling movement of someone crawling along the ground. Conn had his gun up and could have scored a sure hit, but what was the use?

  If he fired now they would surely return his fire and he would likely get hit. If they were pulling out, let them go. There was no point in it if they were quitting. Smoke Parnell had never had more than nine or ten men that Conn knew of, though there could be more…and he had lost three here today.

  Conn stayed right where he was, and after a while he heard the drumming of hoofs, growing fainter in the distance.

  By now it was completely dark, and he went back to the bunk house and stirred up the fire in the stove. Through the light from the open door he saw that Hi Jackson was dead.

  He struck a match and lighted one of the lamps, keeping away from the windows in case one of the outlaws had lingered behind, though he did not expect it of them. After all, they had nothing at stake. They could ride off and attack again at another time, if they had the stomach for it.

  He stood for a moment, reluctant at last to leave the bunk house. When he did, it was just as Tay and Leggett emerged from the ranch house.

  “Conagher?” It was Tay speaking. “You made a fight.”

  “I tried.”

  “Most of the time we weren’t situated to get in even one shot, and then we got our chance.”

  “You broke their backs. You took the heart out of them,” Conagher said. He pushed his hat back. “I’m hungry and tired, Tay, and there’s a dead man in the bunk house. The one Scott brought in.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Hi Jackson.”

  “Too bad,” Tay said. “He rode for me for a while. He was a good hand, but he took to riding with bad company.”

  “Leave him to me,” Leggett said. “You done your share, Conn.”

  Conagher walked back to the house with Tay and sat at the table while the boss filled a cup with coffee for him, and set out bread, some cold meat, and a quarter of an apple pie.