Glory Riders

by Louis L'Amour

  It was almost daylight when he rode up to the fire that had been kept up throughout the night, and, swinging down, he awakened Dirksen. The man sat up, startled. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You forget to call me?”

  Jim grinned at him. “Just figured I was already up and a good cook needed his sleep.”

  Jeeter stared at him. “You mean you rode for me? Say, you’re all right!”

  “Forget it.” Gary stretched. “I had a quiet night, mostly.”

  Red Slagle was sitting up, awakened by their talk. “What do you mean … mostly?

  Jim hesitated, feeling puzzled. “Why, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether I saw anything or not, but I sure thought I did. Anyway, it had me scared.”

  “What was it?” Slagle was pulling on his pants, but his eyes were serious. “A lion?”

  “No, it was a man on a horse. A tall man with a dead-white face, like a skull.” Gary shrugged sheepishly. “Makes me sound like a fool, but I figured for a moment that I’d seen a ghost.”

  Red Slagle was staring at him, and Jeeter’s face was dead-white and his eyes were bulging. “A ghost?” he asked faintly. “Did you say a ghost?”

  “Shucks”—Gary shrugged—“there ain’t no such thing. Just some hombre on a big black horse, passing through in the night, that was all. But believe me, seeing him in the lightning up on that hill like I did, it sure was scary.”

  Tobe Langer was getting up, and he, too, looked bothered. Slagle came over to the fire and sat down, boots in hand. Reaching down, he pulled his sock around to get a hole away from his big toe, then he put his foot into the wet boot, and began to struggle with it.

  “That horse, now,” Langer asked carefully, “did it have a white star between the eyes?”

  Gary was surprised. “Why, yes. Matter of fact, it did. You know him?”

  Slagle let go of the boot and stomped his foot to settle it in the boot. “Yeah, feller we seen down the road a ways. Big black horse.”

  Slagle and Langer walked away from camp a ways, and stood talking together. Jeeter was worried. Jim could see that without half trying, and he studied the man thoughtfully. Jeeter Dirksen was a small man, quiet, but inclined to be nervous. He had neither the strength nor the toughness of Slagle and Langer. If Gary learned anything about the cattle, it would be through his own investigation or from Jeeter. And he was growing more and more curious.

  Yet if these were Double A cattle and had been stolen, why were they being driven toward the Double A Ranch, rather than away from it? He realized suddenly that he knew nothing at all about Red Slagle or his outfit, and it was time he made some inquiries.

  “This Double A,” he asked suddenly, “you been riding for them long?”

  Dirksen glanced at him sharply and bent over his fire. “Not long,” he said. “It’s a Salt Creek outfit. Slagle’s segundo.”

  “Believe I know your foreman,” Gary suggested. “I think this was the outfit he said. Hombre name of Mart Ray. Ever hear of him?”

  Jeeter turned sharply, slopping coffee over the rim of the cup. It hissed in the fire, and both the other men looked around at the camp. Jeeter handed the cup to Gary and studied him, searching his face. Then he admitted cautiously: “Yeah, Ray’s the foreman. Ranch belongs to a syndicate out on the coast. You say you know him?”

  “Uhn-huh. Used to ride with him.” Langer and Slagle had walked back to the fire, and Dirksen poured coffee for them.

  “Who was that you rode with?” Slagle asked.

  “Your boss, Mart Ray.”

  Both men looked up sharply, then Slagle’s face cleared and he smiled. “Say, that’s why the name was familiar. You’re that Jim Gary. Son of old Steve Gary. Yeah, Mart told us about you.”

  Langer chuckled suddenly. “You’re the scary one, huh? The one who likes to keep out of trouble. Yeah, we heard about you.”

  The contempt in his tone stiffened Jim’s back, and for an instant he was on the verge of a harsh retort. Then the memory of what lay behind him welled up within, and bitterly he kept his mouth shut. If he got on the prod and killed a man here, he would only have to drift farther. There was only one solution, and that was to avoid trouble. Yet, irritating as it was to be considered lacking in courage, Langer’s remark let him know that the story of his fights had not preceded him.

  “There’s no call,” he said after a minute, “to go around the country killing folks. If people would just get the idea they can get along without all that. Me, I don’t believe in fighting.”

  Langer chuckled, but Slagle said nothing, and Dirksen glanced at him sympathetically.

  *

  All day the herd moved steadily west, but now Gary noticed a change, for the others were growing more watchful as the day progressed. Their eyes continued to search the surrounding hills, and they rode more warily approaching any bit of cover.

  Once, when Jeeter rode near him, the little man glanced across the herd at the other riders and then said quietly: “That was no ghost you saw. Red rode up there on the hill, an’ there was tracks, tracks of a mighty big black horse.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t ride down to camp?” Jim speculated. “He sure enough saw the fire.”

  Dirksen grunted. “If that hombre was the one Red thinks it is, he sure didn’t have no aim to ride down there.”

  Before Gary could question him further, Jeeter rode off after a stray and, cutting him back into the herd, rode on farther ahead. Jim dropped back to the drag, puzzling over this new angle. Who could the strange rider be? What did he want? Was he afraid of Slagle?

  A big brindle steer was cutting wide of the herd, and Jim swung out to get him, but, dashing toward the stream, the steer floundered into the water and into quicksand. Almost at once, it was down, struggling madly, its eyes rolling.

  Jim swung a loop and dropped it over the steer’s horns. If he could give the steer a little help now, there was a chance he could get it out before it bogged in too deep.

  He started the buckskin back toward more solid ground and with the pull on the rope and the struggling of the steer, he soon had it out on the bank of the stream. The weary animal stumbled and went down, and, shaking his loop loose, Gary swung his horse around to get the animal up. Something he saw on the flank made him swing down beside the steer. Curiously he bent over the brand.

  It had been worked over. The Double A had been burned on over a Slash Four.

  “Something wrong?”

  The voice was cold and level, and Jim Gary started guiltily, turning. Then his eyes widened. “Mart! Well, for crying out in the nighttime. Am I glad to see you.”

  Ray stared. “For the luvva Pete, if it ain’t Gary! Say, how did you get here? Don’t tell me you’re driving that herd up ahead?”

  “That’s right. Your outfit, ain’t it? I hired on back down the line. This steer just got himself bogged down and I had a heck of a time getting him out. You seen Red and the boys?”

  “Not yet. I swung wide. Get that steer on his feet and we’ll join ’em.”

  Yet, as they rode back, despite Ray’s affability, Gary was disturbed. Something here was very wrong. This was a Slash Four steer with the brand worked over to a Double A, the brand for which Ray was foreman. If these cattle were rustled, then Mart Ray was party to it, and so were Slagle, Langer, and Dirksen. And if he was caught with these men and cattle, so was he.

  He replied to Ray’s questions as well as he could, and briefly, aware that his friend was preoccupied and thinking of something else. Yet at the same time he was pleased that Ray asked him no questions about his reasons for leaving home.

  Mart Ray rode up ahead and joined Slagle, and he could see the two men riding on together, deep in conversation. When they bedded down for the night, there had been no further chance to talk to him, and Gary was just as well satisfied, for there was much about this that he did not like. Nor was anything said about the midnight rider. When day broke, Mart Ray was gone. “Rode on to Salt Creek,” Red said. “We’ll see him there.” He g
lanced at Jim, his eyes amused. “He said to keep you on, that you was a top hand.”

  Despite the compliment, Jim was nettled. What else had Ray told Slagle? His eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, he was not staying on. He was going to get shut of this outfit just as fast as he could. All he wanted was his time. Yet by midday he had not brought himself to ask for it.

  Dirksen had grown increasingly silent, and he avoided Langer and Slagle. Watching him, Jim was puzzled by the man, but could find no reason for his behavior unless the man was frightened by something. Finally Jim pulled up alongside Jeeter.

  The man glanced at him and shook his head. “I don’t like this. Not even a little. She’s too quiet.”

  Gary hesitated, waiting for the cowhand to continue, but he held his peace. Then, Gary said, speaking slowly: “It is mighty quiet, but I see nothing wrong with that. I’m not hunting trouble.”

  “Trouble,” Jeeter said dryly, “comes sometimes whether you hunt it or not. If anything breaks around this herd, take my advice an’ don’t ask no questions. Just scatter dust out of here.”

  “Why are you warning me?” Gary asked.

  Jeeter shrugged. “You seem like a right nice feller,” he said quietly. “Shame for you to get rung in on somethin’ as dirty as this when you had nothin’ to do with it.”

  Despite his questions, Jeeter would say no more, and finally Gary dropped back to the drag. There was little dust because of the rains, but the drag was a rough deal, for the herd was tired and the cattle kept lagging back. Langer and Slagle, Jim observed, spent more time watching the hills than the cattle. Obviously both men were as jumpy as Dirksen and were expecting something. Toward dusk Red left the herd and rode up a cañon into the hills.

  Slagle was still gone, and Jim was squatting by the fire watching Jeeter throw grub together when there was a sudden shot from the hills to the north.

  Langer stopped his nervous pacing and faced the direction of the shot, his hand on his gun. Jim Gary got slowly to his feet, and he saw that Jeeter’s knuckles gripping the frying pan were white and hard.

  Langer was first to relax. “Red must have got him a turkey,” he said. “Few around here, and he was sayin’ earlier he’s sure like some.”

  Nevertheless, Gary noted that Langer kept back from the firelight and had his rifle near at hand. There was a sound of an approaching horse, and Langer slid his rifle across his knees, but it was Slagle. He swung down, glancing toward the big man. “Shot at a turkey an’ missed.” Then he added, looking right at Langer: “Nothin’ to worry about now. This time for sure.”

  Dirksen got suddenly to his feet. “I’m quittin’, Red. I don’t like this a-tall, not none. I’m gettin’ out.”

  Slagle’s eyes were flat and ugly. “Sit down an’ shut up, Jeeter,” he said impatiently. “Tomorrow’s our last day. We’ll have a payday this side of Salt Creek, an’ then, if you want to blow, why you can blow out of here.”

  Gary looked up. “I reckon you can have my time then, too,” he said quietly. “I’m riding west for Pleasant Valley.”

  “You?” Langer snorted. “Pleasant Valley? You better stay somewhere where you can be took care of. They don’t side-step trouble out there.”

  Gary felt something rise within him, but he controlled his anger with an effort. “I didn’t ask you for any comment, Tobe,” he said quietly. “I can take care of myself.”

  Langer sneered. “Why, you yaller skunk. I heard all about you. Just because your pappy was a fast man, you must think folks are skeered of you. You’re yaller as saffron. You ain’t duckin’ trouble. You’re just scared.”

  Gary was on his feet, his face white. “All you’ve got to do, Tobe, if you want to lose some teeth, is to stand up.”

  “What?” Langer leaped to his feet. “Why, you dirty …”

  Jim Gary threw a roundhouse left. The punch was wide, but it came fast, and Langer was not expecting Jim to fight. Too late he tried to duck, but the fist caught him on the nose, smashing it and showering the front of his shirt with gore.

  The big man was tough, and he sprang in, swinging with both hands. Gary stood his ground, and began to fire punches with both fists. For a full minute the two big men stood toe to toe and slugged wickedly, and then Gary deliberately gave ground. Overeager, Langer leaped after him, and Gary brought up a wicked right that stood Tobe on his boot toes, and then a looping left that knocked him into the fire.

  With a cry, he leaped from the flames, his shirt smoking. Ruthlessly Gary grabbed him by the shirt front and jerked him into a right hand to the stomach and then a right to the head, and shoving him away he split his ear with another looping left, smashing it like an overripe tomato. Langer went down in a heap.

  Red Slagle had made no move to interfere, but his eyes were hard and curious as he stared up at Gary. “Now where,” he said, “did Ray get the idea that you wouldn’t fight?”

  Gary spilled water from a canteen over his bloody knuckles. “Maybe he just figured wrong. Some folks don’t like trouble. That doesn’t mean they won’t fight when they have to.”

  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 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 hell 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 cheek bone, 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 segun
do 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 taking out.”

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

  Gary knew that Slagle was a gun hand, 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.