The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (17 page)

“Nobody around here has ever guessed,” I said bitterly. This was what I'd been afraid of for years, and now just when I needed some luck, things were catching up with me.

“What are you going to do, Melette?”

“I'm going to go in there and have it out with Led Murry. If any of the others want a piece of it, that's their lookout.”

Have it out with Led Murry.… I'd been thinking it was Brad Nolan who was going to be the bigger problem. “You said that I didn't understand—exactly what is it that I don't understand?” I asked.

“Jim and I are married.” Hanna Ross had walked over to us. “We've been married for three years.”

“We were living near Denver, but I had to go to Mexico on business. I had an accident in a little mountain village. I was laid up a long time.”

“I didn't know what had happened. I thought he was dead.” She whispered it, looking off into the night.

They told me their story. In hushed tones, Melette's voice often rough with anger, they recounted how Led Murry had seen Hanna on the street in Denver and begun following her around. He'd asked her if he could come courting, but when she had told him that she was married he refused to leave her alone. He lurked around their house and spied on her at night. When she complained to the constables he would disappear for a while, but sooner or later he was back. All this time Jim Melette was helplessly trying to recuperate south of the border. He tried to send Hanna letters, but was not surprised that none of them were ever received.

Then one night Led Murry broke into Jim and Hanna's house and tried to force himself on her. She fled, and thinking that her husband was dead, she changed back to her maiden name. Finally she found her way to my town, and became the mysterious woman that we all knew as Hanna Ross.

The story had all the elements of a great play, and when Led Murry appeared in our town it was obvious that that play had become a tragedy. Like a character from a Shakespeare play, he had become a man obsessed.

“After a long time I made it back from Sonora,” Jim said, “and the postmaster in Denver helped me find where Hanna had gone. Now that I'm here, I've got to put a stop to this.

“Led's a bad man, McLane. He's an outlaw, but the law never caught up with him but once and he served his time for that. He's a mighty fast man with a gun. Tonight I'm going to see how fast. I'm going to tell him to leave us alone or start shooting.”

“No.” I spoke sharply. “I'm marshal here, actor or not. Maybe I'm an old fraud, but if you start trouble you'll go to jail. You leave Led Murry to me. He has assaulted a good woman. The next jury he stands in front of will send him away for life.”

Melette looked at me like he figured I'd lost my good sense, and I knew there was no sense, good or otherwise, in what I had in mind. When a man has taken a marshal's salary for ten years, he can't hide the first time real trouble shows. My whole life was based on being something I wasn't, but fool that I was, I hoped I wasn't a coward, too.

“You're crazy, McLane. You can't arrest him without shooting.”

“Marshal?” Hanna Ross spoke up. “He knows … Led Murry knows that you … well, that you did that fake shooting in the Buffalo Bill show. I threatened to go to you when he showed up, and he said you were a fraud!”

“He'll kill you,” Jim Melette said. “You leave him to me.”

 

Before he could say more I turned my back on him and walked to the hitch rail where I could be alone.

This was my town. Sure, I'd become marshal because I could play the part, but in the ten years that passed I'd bought my own home, had shade for my porch, and flowers around the garden fence. When I walked along the street folks spoke to me with respect, and passed the time of day.

When first I came to this town I was an old actor, a man past his prime and with nowhere to go but down. For most of my life I'd been dressing in cold, draughty dressing rooms, playing worn-out roles in fourth-rate casts, and all that lay ahead of me was poorer and poorer roles and less and less work. But then I'd come to Canyon Gap.

There had been a time when I'd played with a few of the best, and in the olio between acts I'd do card tricks, juggle eight balls or eight dinner plates, or sing a fair song. The one thing I could still do best was juggle … there's a place it pays a man to keep up, keeps his hands fast and his eyes sure. Even a town marshal may someday have to give up and go back to doing what he knows.

When I first came to town, the boy that took my bags to my room saw a Colt pistol in my bag … it had fourteen notches on it. That started the story that I was a gunfighter, but it was nothing more than a prop I'd carried when I was with the Bill show.

Whatever I was in the past, I was town marshal now, and I'd been playing the role too long to relinquish it. There was an old adage in the theater that the show must go on. Undoubtedly, that adage was thought up by some leading man who didn't want the understudy to get a chance at his part, but this show had to go on, and I wasn't going to fail the people who had trusted me.

There's something about playing the same role over and over again. After a while a man can come to believe it himself, and over most of those ten years I'd been a good marshal because I'd come to believe I was the part I was playing. Only tonight I could fool myself no longer. I was going up against a man whom I couldn't hope to bluff.

So up the steps I went and into the schoolhouse, and I crossed the room to where Led Murry was sitting with his back to the wall. And as I was crossing the room I saw one of my problems eliminated.

Jim Melette saw me coming and knew what I was going to do, and he started across the room to stop me. He had taken only two steps when Brad Nolan stepped out in front of him. “Look here, Melette, I—”

Jim Melette hit him. He hit Brad in the belly and then he hit him on the chin, and Brad Nolan went down and he didn't make any show of getting up. What Brad had been looking for all these years he'd gotten in one lump, and it knocked all the muscle out of him.

“Led.” I spoke clearly. “Get on your feet. You're under arrest.”

He looked at me and he started to smile, but it was a mean smile. Nothing pleasant about it.

“Am I, now? Why, Marshal? Why me?”

“You've assaulted Hanna Ross, a citizen of this town. I'll have nothing of the sort in Canyon Gap. Get on your feet and drop your gun belts!”

He just sat there, smiling. “Marshal,” he said, “you're a two-bit fraud. I'm going to show this town just what a fraud you are.”

It was dead still in that room. Sweat trickled down my cheeks and I felt sick and empty inside. Why in the world hadn't I stayed outside and let well enough alone?

“After I get through with you, I'll have a talk with good old Jim and Miss Hanna. But first I'm going to kill you, Marshal.”

They were watching, all of them, and they were the people of Canyon Gap, the people of my town. To them I was tall, straight, and indomitable, and though I might be an old man, I was their marshal whom they believed to have killed fourteen men. To myself I was a man who loved peace, who had never drawn a gun in anger, and who had rarely fired one, and who was suddenly called upon to face the results of the role he had created.

My audience, and an audience it was, awaited my reply. Only an instant had passed, and I knew how these things were done, for often I had played roles like this upon the stage. Only to this one there could be but one end. Nonetheless, I owed it to myself, and to the people who had kept me marshal of their town, to play the role out.

“Led Murry,” I said coolly, “stand up!”

He stared at me as if he were about to laugh, but there was a sort of astonished respect on his face, too. He stood, and then he went for his gun.

Fear grabbed at my stomach and I heard the smashing sound of a shot. Led Murry took an astonished step forward and fell to the floor, then rolled over on his back. The bullet had gone through his throat and broken his spine.

Then somebody was slapping me on the back and I looked down and there was a gun in my hand. A gun with fourteen notches filed in the butt, a gun that had fired more blank rounds than live.

There was still the scene. Coolly, I dropped the pistol into my holster and turned my back on Led Murry. Inside I was quivering like jelly. True, we had been only ten feet apart, and it was also true that all my life I'd worked at juggling, sleight of hand … I'd had fifty years of practice.

“Marshal!” It was Lizzie Porter. “You were wonderful!”

“He was a danger to the community,” I choked. “I deeply regret the necessity.”

Inside I was shaking, more scared than I'd ever been in my life, but I was carrying it off … I hoped.

It was Jim Melette who forgot himself. “McLane,” he protested, “you were on the stage! You're no—!”

“Ah, the stage!” Interrupting him as quickly as I could, I handed him an old quote from the show, when I had appeared onstage as a companion of Buffalo Bill. “ ‘I was shotgun messenger for the
Butterfield
stage, scouted for George Armstrong Custer, and rode for the Pony Express!' ” I squeezed his arm hard and said, “Forget it, Jim. Please. Forget it.”

And then I walked out into the night and started for home, my heels hitting the ground too hard, my head bobbing like I was drunk. Right then it hit me, and I was scared, scared like I'd never been in my life. I had no memory of drawing, no memory of firing … what if I hadn't been lucky?

No question about it, I was getting too old for this. It was time to retire.

Of course, I could always run for mayor.

A Husband for Janey

He had been walking since an hour before sunup, but now the air had grown warm and he could hear the sound of running water. Sunlight fell through the leaves and dappled the trail with light and shadow, and when he rounded the bend of the path he saw the girl dipping a bucket into a mountain stream.

He was a tall boy, just turned eighteen, and four months from his home on a woods farm in East Texas. He looked at the girl and he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in a throat that seemed unusually long, rising as it did from the wide, too-loose collar of his homespun shirt.

He swallowed again and cleared his throat. The girl looked up, suddenly wide-eyed, and then she straightened, her lips drawing together and one quick hand brushing a strand of dark hair back from her flushed cheek. “Howdy, ma'am,” he said, his accent soft with East Texas music. “Sure didn't aim to scare you none.”

“It … it's all right.” Her alarm was fading with her curiosity. “Are you goin' to the goldfields?”

A measure of pride and manly assurance came into his voice. “I reckon. I aim to git me money to go back home to Texas an' buy a farm.”

They faced each other across the stream. The boy swallowed, nervous with the silence. “You … your pa washin' gold about here?”

“Yes … Well, he was … He's gone to the settlement. He's been gone three weeks.”

The boy nodded gravely. It had taken him two days to walk up from Angel's Camp, and with that awareness that comes to those who walk the trails he knew her father was not coming back. It was a bad time to be traveling with gold in one's poke.

“You doin' all right?” he asked. “You an' your ma?”

Janey hesitated, rubbing her palms on her apron. She was shy but she didn't want him to go off on his way, for it was lonely with no one about of her own age, and without even neighbors except for Richter. “Ma—she's just back here. Would you like some coffee? We've some fresh.”

He crossed the stream on the rounded stones and took her wooden bucket. “Lemme fetch it for you,” he said. “It's a big bucket for such a little girl.”

She flashed her eyes at him. “I ain't … I mean, I'm not so young! I'm sixteen!”

He grinned at her. “You're nigh to it.”

 

Mrs. Peters looked up from the fire she was tending. She saw the two coming down the trail and her heart seemed to catch with quick realization. And yes, with relief. She carefully noted the boy's serious expression, and when he put the bucket down on the flat rock she saw how his eyes went to Janey's and her quick, flirting glance. This was a strong young man with sloping shoulders and an open, honest look about him.

“Howdy, ma'am.” He felt more sure of himself with the older woman. She reminded him of his aunt. “My name is Meadows. Folks back home call me Tandy.”

“Glad to know you, Tandy. I'm Mrs. Peters. Jane, get this young man a cup. The coffee's hot.” She looked at the boy, liking his clean, boyish face and handsome smile. “Goin' far?”

“To the head of the crick.” He slid the pack from his back and placed it on the ground, and beside it his Roper four-shot revolving shotgun. “I figure to stake me a claim.”

It was cool and pleasant under the great, arching limbs of the trees. There had been some work done on the bench where the stream curved wide, and the cabin was back under the trees out of the heat. A line had been strung for the washing from its corner to the nearest tree.

He stole a glance at the girl and caught her looking at him. She smiled quickly and looked away, flushing a little. His own face colored and he swallowed.

Em Peters filled the cup Jane brought, and he accepted it gratefully. He had started without breakfast, not liking to take the time to fix a decent meal. Em Peters looked at him thoughtfully. He was a well-mannered boy, and she suddenly knew, desperately, that he must not leave. She must keep him here, for Janey.

It wasn't like back home, where there were lots of boys, nice boys from families one had grown up with, and who would work at honest, respectable work. Out here one never knew what sort of people would be coming around. Dave had been small protection, but where there was a man around—well, it was a good feeling.

Dave should never have come west, of course. It was Roy Bacon who talked him into it, and they had sold their place and started out. The wagon and team used up most of the money, and by the time they arrived in California there was almost nothing left. Dave had been a quiet, serious man who needed a steady job or business in a small town. She knew that now, although she had not tried to dissuade him when he talked of going to California. It was the one big thing in Dave's life, and fit for it or not, she knew he had loved it. Crossing the plains, he had been happy. Only at the end, when they arrived, had he been frightened.

Em Peters knew with deep sadness that Dave was not coming back. When he had been two days overdue she knew it, for Dave always had been precise about things. Nor was he a man to drink or gamble. The first rush of the gold hunting was over and some of the tougher men who had been unable to find a good claim, or had lacked the energy or persistence to work one, had taken to the trails. Murders were the order of the day even along the creeks, and in the towns it was worse, much worse.

It was not herself for whom she was worried. She would manage—she always had. It was Janey.

Em Peters had seen the speculative eyes of more than one man who came along the trail or paused for a few minutes. Worst of all, there was Richter. She had been afraid of him from the first. Had warned Dave he was not to be trusted, but Dave had waved off her objections because Richter had showed him how to build a rocker, actually helping with the work.

Only two days before, he had come to her. “Ma'am,” he said, “I hate to say this here, but I figure somethin' happened to Dave.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“You two,” Richter said, “it ain't safe for you. I figured maybe it'd be better if I moved over here.”

Her throat had grown tight, for she could see his eyes following Janey. “We'll be all right,” she had said.

He cocked his head. “Maybe,” he said, “but that there girl o' yourn, she sets a man's blood to boilin'. If I was you, I'd find her a husband mighty quick.”

“Janey has plenty of time.” She forced herself to be calm, and not to answer him as sharply as she felt like doing. “And we'll be all right.” Her voice stiffened a little. “Men in the goldfields won't allow good women to be molested. I've heard of men being hung just for speaking the wrong thing to a woman.”

Richter had heard of it, too, and he did not like the thought. It irritated him that she should mention it. “Oh, sure!” he said. “But you never can tell. Fact is,” he said, rubbing his unshaven jaw, “I might marry her myself.”

Em Peters had her limits, and this was it. “Why, I'd never hear of such a thing!” she exclaimed. “I would rather see Janey dead than married to you, Carl Richter! You're no man for a girl like Janey!”

Angry blood darkened his cheeks and his eyes grew ugly. “You ain't so high-falutin',” he said angrily. “Gettin' 'long by yourselves ain't goin' to be so easy. You try it, an' see!” He had stomped off angrily, but Em had said nothing to Janey, beyond the suggestion that she avoid him. Janey needed no urging. Richter was nearing fifty, a big, dirty man whose cabin was a boar's nest of unwashed clothing and stale smells.

 

Tandy liked his coffee. He nursed the cup in his hands, taking his time and not wanting to leave. Janey was suddenly very busy, stirring the fire, looking into pots, taking clothes from the line.

Em Peters looked down at Tandy, and then her eyes went down the creek to where it emerged from the shadowing trees into sunshine. The thought that Dave was not coming back waited in the back of her consciousness, waited for the night when she could lie alone and hold her grief tightly to her. There was not time for grief now, and she could not let Janey know that hope was gone. Janey was too young for that. She had no experience with grief, none of the hard-found knowledge that all things change, that nothing remains the same. In time Janey would know, but there was time.

“You … you'll be goin' on?” she asked gently. “You have something in mind?”

“Not really, ma'am. Just aimed to find me a bench somewhere an' start workin'. I'm a good worker,” he said, looking up at her. “My aunt Esther always did say I was the strongest boy she knew. For my age, that is,” he added modestly.

Em Peters knew no way of approaching it with care. She looked now for the words, hoping they could come, knowing that somehow they had to come. This was a good boy, a boy from a good, simple, hardworking family. He—whatever it was, she forgot, seeing Richter coming up the path.

Richter did not notice Tandy Meadows. He was full of his own thoughts. It was stupid, he decided, to let the woman put him off. Why, there wasn't another man in twenty miles!

“You there!” he said to Em. “Changed your mind about me marryin' Janey? If you ain't, you better! I done made up my mind! No use this here claim standin' idle! No use that there girl runnin' around loose, botherin' men, worryin' me.”

They all froze, looking at the big man in astonishment. “Carl Richter.” Em Peters's voice was level. “You get out of here! You may go away and don't come back, or the first time the men from the mines come by, I'll set them on you!”

Richter laughed. “Why, that's …” His voice broke and trailed off, for the tall young boy was standing there, looking at him calmly. “Who the hell are you?” Richter demanded.

“You-all,” Tandy Meadows said, in his soft East Texas voice, “heard what the lady said. She said you should go.”

Richter's eyes went cruel. He had been startled, but then he saw this was only a boy, and a country boy at that. “Shut your trap, pup!” he said. “Beat it. I'll give you what's coming to you 'less you git yourself down the road.”

“Ain't figurin' on it,” Tandy said quietly. He moved over to stand between Carl Richter and the women.

Richter hesitated. This youngster was bigger than he had thought. He had big hands, and in the lean, youthful body there was a studied negligence that warned him whatever else this boy might be, he had probably done enough fighting around school and the farms to take care of himself. All the boyish shyness was gone now, and Tandy was sure of himself.

“You got no business here,” Richter growled. “You git out while the gittin's good. I'm coming back an' you better be out of here. If you ain't,” he added, “there'll be a shootin'.”

He turned abruptly and walked away, and Tandy looked after him, faint worry in his eyes. But Janey rushed to him at once. “Thank you!” she exclaimed. “I—I can't imagine what got into him.” She blushed with embarrassment. “He's talking like a crazy man.”

“I reckon.” He swallowed, his eyes going to Em. And Em Peters was frightened. What had she drawn this poor boy into? Richter had killed men. She knew that. A man down in town had told Dave about it. Richter had killed several men with a gun. One man he had beaten to death with a neck yoke. He was a bitter, revengeful man.

Tandy picked up his cup. “Any more o' that there coffee, ma'am?” he asked gently.

She gave it to him, then held the pot. “Tandy,” she said, “you'd better go. We'll manage all right. I don't want any trouble.”

He was still a boy, but there was steel in him. The eyes into which she looked now were cool, but they were eyes strangely mature. “I reckon I'll stay, ma'am. Down where I come from, we don't back water for no man.

“I figure,” he added, “I'd better stick aroun' until your own man fetches back with the supplies. Meanwhilst, I can work some on that rocker. Never worked one o' them an' the practice won't do me harm.”

He had been working for two hours when Janey came down the path with a pot of coffee and two big sandwiches. She had changed her dress and the one she wore now was freshly smoothed and clean. She looked at him, longing to be pretty in his eyes, and finding that the quick wonder in them was even more than she had hoped.

“Are you getting any color?” she asked. “Pa said this was one of the best claims along the creek.”

“Seems good,” he agreed, accepting the coffee and sandwiches. Between bites he looked at her. “You sparkin' anybody?” he asked.

Her chin lifted. “Who wants to know?” He said nothing to that and she glanced at him. “Don't you suppose I know any boys? Don't you suppose they would like me?”

There was not another boy within miles, and Janey Peters had not seen a boy even close to her own age for four months, but he was not going to know
that
.

“Sure. I figure so.”

“Well, then. Don't you be sayin' I don't know any boys! I do so!”

He looked at her in complete astonishment. “Why …” He was utterly flabbergasted. “I didn't say that—!”

“You did so, Tandy Meadows! You did so!” Tears welled into her eyes and panic tightened in his throat.

“No, ma'am!” he protested desperately. “I never done it! I mean—well, I sure didn't aim to!”

“You needn't think you can come along here an'… an'… don't call me
ma'am
!”

He got up. “Guess I better get back to work,” he said lamely. Women! He thought, who could ever figure them out? No matter what a man said, he was always in the wrong. There was no logic in them.

Janey pouted, occasionally stealing a careful look at Tandy to be sure he was feeling sufficiently miserable. Soon she began to feel miserable herself. She turned a little bit toward him, but he avoided her eyes. She moved her feet on the gravel, and he stole a look at her shoes and ankles. Suddenly aware of her scuffed shoes, she hastily drew her feet under her skirt, flushing with embarrassment.