Glory Riders

by Louis L'Amour

  The cabin he had built topped a low rise in a clearing backed by a rocky overhang. He rode through the pines, trying to quiet himself. It might be like they said. Maybe she had sold out and gone away, or just gone. Maybe she had married somebody else, or maybe the Indians… .

  The voice he heard was coarse and amused. “Come off it!” the voice said. “From here on you’re my woman. I ain’t takin’ no more of this guff!”

  Jim London did not stop his horse when it entered the clearing. He let it walk right along, but he lifted the child from in front of him and said: “Betty Jane, that lady over yonder is your new ma. You run to her now, an’ tell her your name is Jane. Hear me?”

  He lowered the child to the ground and she scampered at once toward the slender woman with the wide gray eyes who stood on the step staring at the rider.

  Bill Ketchum turned abruptly to see what her expression meant. The lean, raw-boned man on the horse had a narrow sun-browned face and a battered hat pulled low. The rider shoved it back now and rested his right hand on his thigh. Ketchum stared at him. Something in that steel-trap jaw and those hard eyes sent a chill through him.

  “I take it,” London said gravely, “that you are Bill Ketchum. I heard what you said just now. I also heard down the line that you were a horse thief, maybe worse. You get off this place now, and don’t ever come back. You do and I’ll shoot you on sight. Now get!”

  “You talk mighty big.” Ketchum stared at him, anger rising within him. Should he try this fellow? Who did he think he was, anyway?

  “I’m big as I talk,” London said flatly. “I done killed a man yesterday down to Maxwell’s. Hombre name of Hurlburt. That’s all I figure to kill this week unless you want to make it two. Start moving now.”

  Ketchum hesitated, then viciously reined his horse around and started down the trail. As he neared the edge of the woods, rage suddenly possessed him. He grabbed for his rifle and instantly a shot rang out and a heavy slug gouged the butt of his rifle and glanced off.

  Beyond him the words were plain. “I put that one right where I wanted it. This here’s a seven-shot repeater, so if you want one through your heart, just try it again.”

  London waited until the man had disappeared in the trees, and a minute more. Only then did he turn to his wife. She was down on the step with her arm around Betty Jane, who was sobbing happily against her breast.

  “Jim,” she whispered. “Oh, Jim.”

  He got down heavily. He started toward her, and then stopped. Around the corner came a boy of four or five, a husky youngster with a stick in his hand and his eyes blazing. When he saw Jim, he stopped abruptly. This stranger looked just like the old picture on his mother’s table. Only he had on a coat in the picture, a store-bought coat.

  “Jim.” Jane was on her feet now, color coming back into her face. “This is Little Jim. This is your son.”

  Jim London swallowed and his throat suddenly filled. He looked at his wife and started toward her. He felt awkward, clumsy. He took her by the elbows. “Been a long time, honey,” he said hoarsely, “a mighty long time.”

  She drew back a little nervously. “Let’s … I’ve coffee on. We’ll …” She turned and hurried toward the door, and he followed.

  It would take some time. A little time for both of them to get over feeling strange, and maybe more time for her. She was a woman, and women needed time to get used to things.

  He turned his head and almost automatically his eyes went to that south forty. The field was green with a young crop. Wheat! He smiled.

  She had filled his cup; he dropped into a seat, and she sat down opposite him. Little Jim looked awkwardly at Betty Jane, and she stared at him with round, curious eyes.

  “There’s a big frog down by the bridge,” Little Jim said suddenly. “I bet I can make him hop.”

  They ran outside into the sunlight, and across the table Jim London took his wife’s hand. It was good to be home. Mighty good.

  Fork Your Own Broncs

  Mac Marcy turned in the saddle and, resting his left hand on the cantle, glanced back up the arroyo. His lean, brown face was troubled. There were cattle here, all right, but too few.

  At this time of day, late afternoon and very hot, there should have been a steady drift of cattle toward the water hole.

  Ahead of him he heard a steer bawl and then another. Now what? Above the bawling of the cattle he heard another sound, a sound that turned his face gray with worry. It was the sound of hammers.

  He needed nothing more to tell him what was happening. Jingle Bob Kenyon was fencing the water hole!

  As he rounded the bend in the wash, the sound of hammers ceased for an instant, but only for an instant. Then they continued with their work.

  Two strands of barbed wire had already been stretched tight and hard across the mouth of the wash. Several cowhands were stretching the third wire of what was obviously to be a four-wire fence.

  Already Marcy’s cattle were bunching near the fence, bawling for water.

  As he rode nearer, two men dropped their hammers and lounged up to the fence. Marcy’s eyes narrowed and his gaze shifted to the big man on the roan horse. Jingle Bob Kenyon was watching him with grim humor.

  Marcy avoided the eyes of the two other men by the fence, Vin Ricker and John Soley, who could mean only one thing for him— trouble, bad trouble. Vin Ricker was a gun hand and a killer. John Soley was anything Vin told him to be.

  “This is a rotten trick, Kenyon,” Marcy declared angrily. “In this heat my herd will be wiped out.”

  Kenyon’s eyes were unrelenting. “That’s just tough,” he stated flatly. “I warned you when you fust come in here to git out while the gittin’ was good. You stayed on. You asked for it. Now you take it or git out.”

  Temper flaring within him like a burst of flame, Marcy glared. But deliberately he throttled his fury. He would have no chance here. Ricker and Soley were too much for him, let alone the other hands and Kenyon himself.

  “If you don’t like it,” Ricker sneered, “why don’t you stop us? I hear tell you’re a plumb salty hombre.”

  “You’d like me to give you a chance to kill me, wouldn’t you?” Marcy asked harshly. “Someday I’ll get you without your guns, Ricker, and I’ll tear down your meat house.”

  Ricker laughed. “I don’t want to dirty my hands on you, or I’d come over an’ make you eat those words. If you ever catch me without these guns, you’ll wish to old Harry I still had ’em.”

  Marcy turned his eyes away from the gunman and looked at Kenyon.

  “Kenyon, I didn’t think this of you. Without water, my cows won’t last three days, and you know it. You’ll bust me flat.”

  Kenyon was unrelenting. “This is a man’s country, Marcy,” he said dryly. “You fork your own bronc’s an’ you git your own water. Don’t come whinin’ to me. You moved in on me, an’, if you git along, it’ll be on your own.”

  Kenyon turned his horse and rode away. For an instant Marcy stared after him, seething with rage. Then, abruptly, he wheeled his grayish-black horse—a moros—and started back up the arroyo. Even as he turned, he became aware that only six lean steers faced the barbed wire.

  He had ridden but a few yards beyond the bend when that thought struck him like a blow. Six head of all the hundreds he had herded in here. By rights they should all be at the water hole or heading that way. Puzzled, he started back up the trail.

  By rights, there should be a big herd here. Where could the cattle be? As he rode back toward his claim shack, he stared about him. No cattle were in sight. His range was stripped.

  Rustlers? He scowled. But there had been no rustling activity of which he had heard. Ricker and Soley were certainly the type to rustle cattle, but Marcy knew Kenyon had been keeping them busy on the home range.

  He rode back toward the shack, his heart heavy.

  He had saved for seven years, riding cattle trails to Dodge, Abilene, and Ellsworth to get the money to buy his herd. It was his big chance
to have a spread of his own, a chance for some independence and a home.

  A home. He stared bitterly at the looming rimrock behind his outfit. A home meant a wife, and there was only one girl in the world for him. There would never be another who could make him feel as Sally Kenyon did. But she would have to be old Jingle Bob’s daughter.

  Not that she had ever noticed him. But in those first months before the fight with Jingle Bob became dog-eat-dog, Marcy had seen her around, watched her, been in love with her from a distance. He had always hoped that when his place had proved up and he was settled, he might know her better. He might even ask her to marry him.

  It had been a foolish dream. Yet day by day it became even more absurd. He was not only in a fight with her father, but he was closer than ever to being broke.

  Grimly, his mind fraught with worry, he cooked his meager supper, crouching before the fireplace. Again and again the thought kept recurring—where were his cattle? If they had been stolen, they would have to be taken down past the water hole and across Jingle Bob’s range. There was no other route from Marcy’s corner of range against the rim. For a horseman, yes. But not for cattle.

  The sound of a walking horse startled him. He straightened, and then stepped away from the fire and put the bacon upon the plate, listening to the horse as it drew nearer. Then he put down his food, and, loosening his gun, he stepped to the door.

  The sun had set long since, but it was not yet dark. He watched a gray horse coming down from the trees leading up to the rim. Suddenly he gulped in surprise.

  It was Sally Kenyon! He stepped outside and walked into the open. The girl saw him and waved a casual hand, and then reined in.

  “Have you a drink of water?” she asked, smiling. “It’s hot, riding.”

  “Sure,” he said, trying to smile. “Coffee, if you want. I was just fixing to eat a mite. Want to join me? Of course,” he said sheepishly, “I ain’t no hand with grub.”

  “I might take some coffee.”

  Sally swung down, drawing off her gauntlets. She had always seemed a tall girl, but on the ground she came just to his shoulder. Her hair was honey-colored, her eyes gray.

  He caught the quick glance of her eyes as she looked around. He saw them hesitate with surprise at the spectacle of flowers blooming near the door. She looked up, and their eyes met.

  “Ain’t much time to work around,” he confessed. “I’ve sort of been trying to make it look like a home.”

  “Did you plant the flowers?” she asked curiously.

  “Yes, ma’am. My mother was always a great hand for flowers. I like ’em, too, so when I built this cabin, I set some out. The wildflowers, I transplanted.”

  He poured coffee into a cup and handed it to her. She sipped the hot liquid and looked at him.

  “I’ve been hearing about you,” she said.

  “From Jingle Bob?”

  She nodded. “And some others. Vin Ricker, for one. He hates you.”

  “Who else?”

  “Chen Lee.”

  “Lee?” Marcy shook his head. “I don’t place him.”

  “He’s Chinese, our cook. He seems to know a great deal about you. He thinks you’re a fine man. A great fighter, too. He’s always talking about some Mullen gang you had trouble with.”

  “Mullen gang?” He stared. “Why, that was in …” He caught himself. “No, ma’am, I reckon he’s mistook. I don’t know any Chinese and there ain’t no Mullen gang around I know of.”

  That, he reflected, was no falsehood. The Mullen gang had all fitted very neatly into the boothill he had prepared for them back in Bentown. They definitely weren’t around.

  “Going to stay here?” she asked, looking at him over her coffee cup, her gray eyes level.

  His eyes flashed. “I was fixing to, but I reckon your old man has stopped me by fencing that water hole. He’s a hard man, your father.” “It’s a hard country.” She did not smile. “He’s got ideas about it. He drove the Mescaleros out. He wiped out the rustlers. He took this range. He doesn’t like the idea of any soft-going, second-run cowhand coming in and taking over.”

  His head jerked up.

  “Soft-going?” he flared. “Second-run? Why, that old billy goat.” Sally turned toward her horse. “Don’t tell me. Tell him. If you’ve nerve enough.”

  He got up and took the bridle of her horse. His eyes were hard.

  “Ma’am,” he said, striving to make his voice gentle, “I think you’re a mighty fine person, and sure enough pretty, but that father of yours is a rough-riding old buzzard. If it wasn’t for that Ricker hombre… .”

  “Afraid?” she taunted, looking down at him.

  “No, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Only I ain’t a killing man. I was raised a Quaker. I don’t aim to do no fighting.”

  “You’re in a fighting man’s country,” she warned him. “And you are cutting in on a fighting man’s range.”

  She turned her gray and started to ride away. Suddenly she reined in and looked back over her shoulder.

  “By the way,” she said, “there’s water up on the rim.”

  Water up on the rim? What did she mean? He turned his head and stared up at the top of the great cliff, which loomed high overhead into the night. It was fully a mile away, but it seemed almost behind his house.

  How could he get up to the rim? Sally had come from that direction. In the morning he would try. In the distance, carried by the still air of night, he heard a cow bawling. It was shut off from the water hole. His six head, starving for water.

  Marcy walked out to the corral and threw a saddle on the moros. He swung into the saddle and rode at a canter toward the water hole.

  They heard him coming, and he saw a movement in the shadows by the cottonwoods.

  “Hold it!” a voice called. “What do you want?”

  “Let that fence down and put them cows through!” Marcy yelled.

  There was a harsh laugh. “Sorry, amigo. No can do. Only Kenyon cows drink here.”

  “All right,” Marcy snapped. “They are Kenyon cows. I’m giving ’em to him. Let the fence down and let ’em drink. I ain’t seeing no animal die just to please an old plug head. Let ’em through.”

  Then he heard Sally’s voice. He saw her sitting her horse beside old Joe Linger, who was her bodyguard, teacher, and friend. An old man who had taught her to ride and to shoot and who had been a scout for the Army at some time in the past.

  Sally was speaking, and he heard her say: “Let them through, Texas. If they are our cows, we don’t want to have them die on us.”

  Marcy turned the moros and rode back toward his cabin, a sense of defeat heavy upon him …

  *

  He rolled out of his blankets with the sun and, after a quick breakfast, saddled the grayish-black horse and started back toward the rim. He kept remembering Sally’s words. There is water on the rim. Why had she told him that? What good would water do him if it was way up on the rim?

  There must be a way up. By backtracking the girl, he could find it. He was worried about the cattle. The problem of their disappearance kept working into his thoughts. That was another reason for his ride, the major reason. If the cattle were still on his ranch, they were back in the breaks at the foot of the rim.

  As he backtracked the girl’s horse, he saw cow tracks, more and more of them. Obviously some of his cattle had drifted this way. It puzzled him, yet he had to admit that he knew little of this country.

  Scarcely a year before he had come into this range, and, when he arrived, the grass in the lower reaches of the valley was good, and there were mesquite beans. The cattle grew fat. With hotter and dryer weather, they had shown more and more of a tendency to keep to shady hillsides and to the cañons.

  The cow tracks scattered out and disappeared. He continued on the girl’s trail. He was growing more and more puzzled, for he was in the shadow of the great cliff now, and any trail that mounted it must be frightfully steep. Sally, of course, had grown up in this country on
horseback. With her always had been Joe Linger. Old Joe had been one of the first white men to settle in the rim country.

  Marcy skirted a clump of piñon and emerged on a little sandy level at the foot of the cliff. This, at one distant time, had been a streambed, a steep stream that originated somewhere back up in the rimrock and flowed down here and deeper into his range.

  Then he saw the trail. It was a narrow catwalk of rock that clung to the cliff’s edge in a way that made him swallow as he looked at it. The catwalk led up the face of the cliff and back into a deep gash in the face of the rim, a gash invisible from below.

  The moros snorted a few times, but true to its mountain blood it took the trail on dainty feet. In an hour Marcy rode out on the rim itself. All was green here, green grass. The foliage on the trees was greener than below. There was every indication of water, but no sign of a cow. Not even a range-bred cow would go up such a trail as Marcy had just ridden.

  Following the tracks of the gray, Marcy worked back through the cedar and piñon until he began to hear a muffled roar. Then he rode through the trees and reined in at the edge of a pool that was some twenty feet across. Water flowed into it from a fair-size stream, bubbling over rocks and falling into the pool. There were a number of springs here, and undoubtedly the supply of water was limitless. But where did it go?

  Dismounting, Marcy walked down to the edge of the water and knelt on a flat rock and leaned far out.

  Brush hung far out over the water at the end of the pool, brush that grew on a rocky ledge no more than three feet above the surface of the water. But beneath that ledge was a black hole at least eight feet long. Water from the pool was pouring into that black hole.

  Mac Marcy got up and walked around the pool to the ledge. The brush was very thick, and he had to force his way through. Clinging precariously to a clump of manzanita, he leaned out over the rim of the ledge and tried to peer into the hole. He could see nothing except a black slope of water and that the water fell steeply beyond that slope.

  He leaned farther out, felt the manzanita give way slowly, and made a wild clutch at the neighboring brush. Then he plunged into the icy waters of the pool.