Glory Riders

by Louis L'Amour

  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 mid-afternoon 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 cañon opened, and not far beyond would be the spot where he expected to find Ray with the pay-off 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 bronco, 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 leather-like 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, “and 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, only I haven’t done those things. I hired onto this outfit back down the line. Forty bucks to the head of Salt Creek Wash … and 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 cowpuncher 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 attractive, 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 cowpuncher 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 coming, and 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 cowpuncher 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 cowpunchers had heard of him, probably from some grubline rider or drifting cowpuncher.

  “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 and his niece, who 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 their number, 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 minu
tes, 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 and 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 knew you’d be this low-down. I don’t like to remind anybody of what I did for him, but I recall a stampede I hauled you out of. Are you going 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. “Everybody knows what about him? If you’ve never seen him before, how could you say everybody 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 if off and show them. Reach up slow and 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.

  In the hot, dusty stillness of the afternoon street, all was deathly still. Somewhere a baby cried, and a foot shifted on the boardwalk. For what seemed an age, all movement seemed frozen and still as the two men in the street faced each other.

  Kitty Blaze, her eyes wide with horror, seemed caught in that same breathless time-frozen hush. The hands of the men were moving with flashing speed, but at that instant everything seemed to move hauntingly slow. She saw Mart Ray’s gun swing up; she saw the killing eagerness in his face, his lips thinned and white, his eyes blazing. And she saw the stranger, Jim Gary, tall, lithe, and strong, his dark face passionless, yet somehow ruthless. And she saw his lean brown hand flash in a blur of movement, saw flame leap from the black muzzles of his guns, and saw Mart Ray smashed back, back, back! She saw his body flung sideways into the hitching rail, saw a horse rear, his lashing hoofs within inches of the man. She saw the gun blaze again from the ground, and a leap of dust from the stranger’s shoulder, and she saw Gary move coolly aside to bring his guns better to bear upon the man who was now struggling up. As in a kind of daze, she saw Jim Gary holding his fire, letting Ray get to his feet. In that stark, incredible instant, she saw him move his lips and she heard the words, as they all heard them in the silence of the street. “I’m sorry, Mart. You shouldn’t have played it this way. I’d rather it had been the stampede.”

  And when Ray’s guns swung up, his shirt was bloody, his face twisted in a sort of leer torn into his cheek by a bullet, and his eyes were fiendish. The guns came up, and even as they came level, red flame stabbed from the muzzles of Gary’s guns and Ray’s body jerked, dust sprang from his shirt’s back, and he staggered back and sat down on the edge of the walk, and then, as though taken with a severe pain in the groin, he rolled over into the street and sprawled out flat. Somewhere thunder rolled.

  For a long moment, the street was motionless. Then somebody said: “We better get inside. She’s rainin’.”

  Jerry swung from his horse and in a couple of strides was beside the fallen man. Ripping back the shirt, he exposed the side, scarred by a steer’s hoof.

  Dan Blaze jerked around. “Slagle!” he yelled. “Where’s Red Slagle! Get him!”

  “Here.” Slagle was sitting against the building, gripping a bloody hand. “I caught a slug. I got behind Ray.” He looked up at Blaze. “Gary’s right. He’s straight as a string. It was Ray’s idea to ring him in and use him as the goat after he found him with us.”

  Dan Blaze knelt beside him. “Who killed my brother?” he demanded. “Was it you or Ray?”

  “Ray shot him first. I finished it. I went huntin’ him an’ he busted out of the brush. He had a stick he’d carried for walkin’ an’ I mistook it for a gun.”

  “What about Langer?” Gary demanded. “Where is he?”<
br />
  Red grinned, a hard, cold grin. “He lit a shuck. That whuppin’ you gave him took somethin’ out of him. Once he started to run, he didn’t stop, not even for his money.” He dug into his pocket. “That reminds me. Here’s the forty bucks you earned.” Jim Gary took the money, surprised speechless. Slagle struggled erect. Gary’s expression seemed to irritate him. “Well, you earned it, didn’t you? An’ I hired you, didn’t I? Well, I never gypped no man out of honest wages yet. Anyway,” he added wryly, “by the looks of that rope I don’t reckon I’ll need it. Luck to you, kid.” He grinned. “Stay out of trouble.”

  Thunder rumbled again, and rain poured into the street, a driving, pounding rain that would start the washes running and bring the grass to life again, green and waving for the grazing cattle, moving west, moving north.

  The Turkeyfeather Riders

  Jim Sandifer swung down from his buckskin and stood for a long minute, staring across the saddle toward the dark bulk of Bearwallow Mountain. His was the grave, careful look of a man accustomed to his own company under the sun and in the face of the wind. For three years he had been riding for the B Bar, and for two of those years he had been ranch foreman. What he was about to do would bring an end to that, an end to the job, to the life here, to his chance to win the girl he loved.

  Voices sounded inside the ranch house, the low rumble of Gray Bowen’s bass and the quick, light voice of his daughter Elaine. The sound of her voice sent a quick spasm of pain across Sandifer’s face. Tying the buckskin to the hitch rail, he ducked under it and walked up the steps, his boots sounding loudly on the planed boards, his spurs tinkling lightly.

  The sound of his steps brought instant stillness to the group inside and then the quick tattoo of Elaine’s feet as she hurried to meet him. It was a sound he would never tire of hearing, a sound that had brought gladness to him such as he had never known before. Yet when her eyes met his at the door, her flashing smile faded.

  “Jim! What’s wrong?” Then she noticed the blood on his shoulder and the tear where the bullet had ripped his shirt, and her face went white to the lips. “You’re hurt!”