The Strong Land

by Louis L'Amour

  “You have a home somewhere?”

  “No. Home is where the heart is, they say, and my heart is here”—he touched his chest—“for now. I’m still a dreamer, I reckon. Still thinking of the one girl who is somewhere.”

  “You’ve had a hard time,” she said, looking at him again.

  She had never seen so much raw power in a man, never seen so much sleeping strength as in the muscles that rolled beneath his shirt.

  “Tell me about you,” he said. “Who are them two men that were here?”

  “Harrington and Clyde,” she told him. “The H and C Cattle Company. They moved in here two years ago, during the drought. They bought land and cattle. They prospered. They aren’t big, but then nobody else is, either.

  “The sheriff doesn’t want trouble. Clyde outtalks those who dislike him. My father did, very much, and he wasn’t outtalked. He died, killed by a fall from a bad horse, about a year ago. It seems he was in debt. He was in debt to Nevers, who runs the general store in Black Mesa. Not much, but more than he could pay. Clyde bought up the notes from Nevers.

  “Wantrell, a lawyer in Phoenix who knew my father, is trying to get it arranged so we will have water here. If we do, we could pay off the notes in a short time. If we had water, I could borrow money in Prescott. There is water on government land above us, and that’s why Clyde wants it. He tried to get me to move away for the notes. Then he offered to pay me five hundred dollars and give me the notes.

  “When I refused, he had some of his men dam the stream and shut off what water I had. My cattle died. Some of my horses were run off. Then he came in with some more bills and told me I’d have to leave or pay. He has some sort of a paper on the place. It says that my father promised to give Nevers the place if he didn’t pay up or if anything happened to him.”

  “No friends?” asked the man.

  “Yes, a man named Rex Tilden,” Tess said. “He rode for Dad once and then started a ranch of his own. He’s good with a gun, and, when I wrote to him, he said he would come. He’s five days late now.”

  The stranger nodded. “I know.” He took a small wallet from his pocket. “That his?”

  She caught it up, her face turning pale. She had seen it many times.

  “Yes! You know him? You have seen him?”

  “He’s dead. Drygulched. He was killed near Santos three days ago.”

  “You knew him?” Tess repeated.

  “No. I got kicked off a train I was riding. I found him dying. He told me about you, asked me to help. There was nobody else around, so I came.”

  “Oh, thank you! But Rex! Rex Tilden dead. And because of me!”

  His face didn’t change. “Mebbe.” He brought out the gun he had taken from Clyde and checked it. “Mebbe need this. Where’s that dam?”

  “Up there, on the ridge. But they have it guarded.”

  “Do they?” He didn’t look interested.

  She put the bacon on his plate and poured coffee. He ate in silence, and, when he had finished, it was dark. He got up suddenly.

  “You got a gun?” he asked.

  “Just a small rifle, for rabbits.”

  “Use it. If anything moves, shoot.”

  “But it might be you,” she protested. “When you come back, I mean.”

  He smiled, and his whole face seemed to lighten. “When anything moves, shoot. It won’t be me. When I come back, you won’t hear me.”

  “Who are you?” It was the first time she had asked that.

  He hesitated, looking at the ground, and then at her, and his eyes glinted with humor. “My name is Barney Shaw,” he said then. “That mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Should it?”

  “No, I reckon not.”

  He ate for a while in silence, and then looked up at her.

  “A few years ago I was punching cows. Then I worked in the mines. A man saw me in a fight once and trained me. In two years I was one of the best. Then I killed a man in a dice game and got two years for it. He was cheating. I accused him. He struck at me. When the two years were up … I’d been sentenced to ten, but they let me out after two … I went to sea. I was at sea for four years. Then I decided to come back and find a place for myself, here in the West. But first, a job.”

  Tess looked at him understandingly. “I need a man,” she said, “but I haven’t the money to pay.”

  He looked at his plate. “How about a working share?”

  “All right. Fifty-fifty.” She smiled ruefully. “But it isn’t much. I think Clyde will win, after all.”

  “Not if I can help it. How much do you owe?”

  “A thousand dollars. It might as well be a million. We don’t have more than fifty head of cattle on the place, and only four saddle horses.”

  He went out the back door and vanished. Or so it seemed. Tess, glancing out a moment later, could see nothing. She should have told him about Silva, the guard at the dam. Silva was a killer and quick as a snake.

  She turned again to the house and began putting things in order. First, she barricaded the front door, and then opened the window a slit at the bottom. She got out her rifle, checked it, and laid out some ammunition.

  * * * * *

  Barney Shaw had seen the draw when he had approached the house by the road, so when he left the house, he hit it fast. It was deep enough by a head, and he started away. Fortunately it led toward the dam. It was the old streambed.

  From the shadow of a gigantic boulder, he looked up at the dam. Largely brush, logs, and earth, it was a hasty job and homemade. He watched for twenty minutes before he saw the guard. Silva, a Mexican, had found a place for himself where he could command all the approaches to the dam.

  In the moonlight, a rock cedar made a heavy shadow. Barney Shaw moved, and then, as Silva’s head moved, he froze. He was out in the open, but he knew the lign ht was indistinct. For a long time he stood still, and then, as Silva’s head moved again, Shaw glided forward to the shelter of the rock cedar.

  He was no more than a dozen feet from the guard now, and through a hole in the bushy top of the cedar he could see Silva’s long, lantern jaw, and even the darkness seemed to mark the thin mustache the man wore.

  When Silva stood up, Shaw could see that the man was tall, yet feline in his movements. Silva stretched, and then turned and came toward the cedar, walking carelessly. He had put his rifle aside and walked with the aimlessness of a man without care. Yet something in that very carelessness struck Shaw as the guard moved closer.

  Silva stepped past the tree, and then whirled and dived straight at Shaw, his knife flashing in the moonlight!

  Only that sense of warning saved Barney Shaw. He stepped back, just enough, and whipped a left hook for Silva’s chin. It landed, a glancing blow, and the Mexican dropped. But cat-like he was on his feet, and, teeth bared, he lunged again. Shaw stepped in, warding off the knife, and slashed with the edge of his hand for the Mexican’s neck. The blow was high and took the man across the temple and ear.

  Silva went to his knees and lost his hold on the knife. Barney stepped in, and, as the Mexican came up, he hit him once, twice. The blows cracked like whips in the still air, and the guard dropped to his face.

  Dragging him roughly into the open, Shaw hastily bound him hand and foot. Then he walked over and picked up the guard’s rifle. It was a Winchester and a good one.

  Rustling around, he found an axe and a pick. Without so much as a glance toward the guard, he dropped down the face of the dam and, setting himself, sank the axe into one of the key posts. When he had cut through the posts and the timbers back of them, he was sweating profusely. He was aware, too, that the axe was making a ringing sound that would carry for at least a mile in that still air.

  Putting the axe down, he took the pick and began digging at the dirt and rock that were piled up ag
ainst the water side of the dam. In a few minutes there was a trickle of water coming through, then a fair-size stream.

  Carrying the rifle, he went back to the edge of the draw where the timbers had been fitted into notches cut into the rock with a double jack and drill. It took him more than an hour, but he cut two timbers loose.

  Dropping his tools, he walked over to look at Silva. The Mexican was conscious, and his eyes blazed when Shaw looked at him, grinning.

  “Don’t worry,” Barney said grimly. “You’re safe up here, and, when the dam goes out, they’ll be up here in a hurry.”

  He turned and started away, keeping to the shadows of the cedars. And before he had walked a hundred yards, he heard a whoosh and then the rustle of rushing water.

  It was a small stream, and the water wasn’t much, but it would more than fill the pools down below where Tess Bayeux’s cattle came to drink.

  There was no warning, and he was still some distance from the girl’s cabin when he saw a rifle flash. Simultaneously something struck him a terrific blow alongside the head and he tumbled, face downward, into the gravel. He felt his body sliding, head first, and then he lost consciousness.

  * * * * *

  When Barney Shaw opened his eyes, it was daylight.

  He tried to move his head, and pain shot through him like a burning iron. For an instant then he lay still, gathering the will to try again. The side of his head and face that was uppermost was caked with dried blood, and his hair was matted with it. That the morning was well along he knew, for his back was hot with sun, and from the feel the sun was high.

  Shaw moved his head and, despite the pain, forced himself to his knees. His head swimming, he peered about.

  He lay on a rocky hillside. Below him, half hidden by a clump of cedar, and almost two miles away, was the house of Tess Bayeux. At his right he could hear water running, and that meant the stream he had released had not yet been stopped.

  His rifle and pistol were still with him. Gingerly he felt his head. It was badly swollen, and the scalp was furrowed by a bullet. He had bled profusely, and he decided that if his drygulchers had looked at him, they had decided the bullet had entered his skull.

  What about Tess? Had they thrown her out? Or was she still holding the place? The silence was ominous, and obviously hours had passed.

  Whoever had shot him had no doubt left him for dead and had also freed Silva. How many enemies were there? He had no way of knowing, and Tess had told him nothing. Harrington, Silva, and Clyde were three, and, of them all, George Clyde was the most dangerous because he was the most intelligent.

  From a position behind some boulders and cedar Shaw studied the small ranch house. There was no evidence of activity, nothing to indicate how the tide of battle had gone.

  Then a door banged at the house and he saw a man come out, walking toward the corral. He roped two horses, and in a few minutes two riders started off to town. One of them was Silva.

  It took Barney Shaw a half hour of painstaking effort to get to the wall of the house without being seen. He edged along to the corner, and then stopped. Cautiously he peered around. Not ten feet away a man was sitting on the edge of the porch, a rifle on his knees.

  He was a short man, but square-jawed and tough. As Barney looked, the man put the rifle against the post, took out a pipe, and began to fill it. Shaw made a quick calculation of his chances and decided against it. With Harrington, perhaps. Not this jasper. This hombre was different.

  Suddenly Barney Shaw saw a slim piece of pipe, and it gave him an idea. Picking it up, he glanced to see if it was clear, and then looked around for some pebbles. He selected a half dozen. In school, too many years ago, he had been an artist with a bean-shooter.

  The man on the porch had a beak of a nose that jutted out above his heavy jaw like the prow on a ship. Taking careful aim, Shaw blew the first pebble. It missed.

  The man glanced in the direction of the sound where the pebble hit the ground, and then turned back, puffing contentedly at his pipe. Then Barney fired a second pebble.

  It was a direct hit. The pebble, fired from the bean-shooter with force, hit him right on the nose.

  With a cry of pain, the man leaped to his feet, one hand grasping his nose. His pipe had fallen to the ground.

  Instantly Barney was around the corner. The man, holding his nose, his eyes watering, never saw him coming. It was only when Barney, picking up the rifle, knocked it against the porch that the man whirled about. And Shaw slapped him alongside the head with the butt of the rifle, swinging it free-handed.

  The fellow went down, grabbing for his gun, but Shaw stepped in and kicked it from his hand. Then, as the fellow started to rise, Shaw slapped him across the temple with a pistol barrel. The man went down and out.

  Coolly Barney shouldered the fellow and, walking with him to the barn, tied him securely and dropped him into a feed bin. Then he went outside and roped a horse. When it was saddled, he led it to the house, left it ground-hitched, and took a quick look. There was no sign of Tess Bayeux. Hiding the extra rifle, he swung into the saddle and started at a canter for town.

  He was a tough-looking figure when he rode into town. His shock of black hair was still thick with dust, and his face was stained with blood. The two pistols were thrust into his waistband, and he carried a rifle in his hands. He was cantering up the street when he saw Silva.

  The Mexican had come to the door of the saloon, and, when he saw Barney, he swore and dropped a hand for a gun. Shaw swung the rifle and fired across the pommel of the saddle.

  The first shot knocked the gun from Silva’s hand, the second slammed him back into the wall. It was a shoulder shot. Silva stood there, staring stupidly.

  Swinging down, Barney tied the horse and walked along the boardwalk. A dozen people had rushed out at the sound of a shot, but he ignored them. He merely walked to Silva and stopped. For a long time he looked at him.

  “Next time I’ll kill you,” he said, and walked inside.

  Three men were in the bar besides the bartender. One of them was a powerfully built man with big hands and a flat nose. Behind the bar were some photos of him, posed like a boxer.

  “You a fighter?” Shaw demanded. “If you are, I can lick you.”

  The man looked at him, his eyes hard.

  “I fight for money,” he said.

  “So do I,” Shaw said. He looked at the bartender. “I’ll fight this hombre, winner take all, skin-tight kid gloves, to a finish.”

  The bartender’s face whitened, and then turned red. “You know who this is?” he demanded. “This is the Wyoming Slasher.”

  “All right. Line up the fight.” Shaw hesitated. “One thing … it must be one thousand dollars for the purse.”

  The bartender laughed. “You’ll get that, easy. If you win. The boys like to see the Slasher fight.”

  Barney Shaw nodded and walked out.

  “Who was that?” Harrington demanded as he burst in from the back room. “Who was that man?”

  “Some gent with his face all bloody, dusty as sin, wantin’ to fight the Slasher for a thousand dollars.”

  “The Slasher? A thousand dollars?” Harrington’s eyes hardened. “Why, I’ll fix his clock!”

  “No you won’t.” Clyde walked into the room. “Let it ride. The Slasher will kill him. That will settle everything.”

  Barney Shaw walked to the hotel, carrying his rifle in the hollow of his arm. He was going up the steps when he saw Tess. Her eyes widened.

  “I thought … you were dead or gone!” she exclaimed.

  “No.” He looked at her. “What happened?”

  “They surprised me, just before morning. The sheriff was with them, and he made me leave. They had some papers, and they said I had to leave. If I can pay in ten days, I can go back.”

  “In ten days you’ll pay,” he promised, and w
alked past her to the desk. “I want a room and a telegraph blank,” he told the clerk.

  The clerk shook his head.

  “We don’t have any rooms.”

  Barney Shaw reached over the desk and caught the clerk behind the neck and dragged him half over the desk.

  “You heard me,” he said harshly. “I want a room and a telegraph blank. You never sold this hotel out since it was built. Now get me that room.”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk swallowed and turned the register. “I just remembered. There is a room left.”

  He put a blank on the desk, and Barney wrote hastily: Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party. Then he signed his name. He told the clerk to send the message to the depot and have the agent get it off at once.

  Tess came over and stood beside him. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Fight the Slasher for a thousand dollars,” he said. “That will pay you off.”

  “The Slasher?” Her face paled. “Oh, not him, Barney. He’s awful. He killed a man in a fight. And those men with him. That Dirk Hutchins, McCluskey, and the rest. They are awful.”

  “Are they?” Barney smiled at her. “I’m going to wash up, then sleep.” He turned and walked upstairs.

  A man got up from across the room and walked over to the desk.

  “What do you think, Martin?” he asked.

  Martin Tolliver, the clerk, looked up and his face was grim.

  “This one’s different, Joe. I’m going to bet on him.”

  “I think I will, too,” Joe said. “But we’ll be the only ones.”

  “Yes,” Martin agreed. “But he took hold of me. Joe, that hombre’s got a grip like iron. It was like being taken in a vise. I was never so scared in my life.”

  * * * * *

  By noon the day of the fight, cowpunchers were in from the ranches and miners from the mines. The ring had been pitched in the center of the big corral. Martin Tolliver, the hotel clerk, and Joe Todd were betting. They were getting odds.