The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (28 page)

“Mr. Burt,” Ma said, “for your own information, I grew up among Sioux children in Minnesota. They were my playmates.”

Come daylight our wagon pulled off to one side, pointing northwest at the mountains, and Mr. Buchanan led off to the west. Webb followed Ma's wagon, and I sat watching Mr. Buchanan's eyes get angrier as John Sampson, Neely Stuart, the two Shafter wagons, and Tom Croft all fell in behind us.

Tryon Burt had been talking to Mr. Buchanan, but he left off and trotted his horse over to where I sat my horse. Mr. Buchanan looked mighty sullen when he saw half his wagon train gone and with it a lot of his importance as captain.

Two days and nearly forty miles farther and we topped out on a rise and paused to let the oxen take a blow. A long valley lay across our route, with mountains beyond it, and tall grass wet with rain, and a flat bench on the mountainside seen through a gray veil of a light shower falling. There was that bench, with the white trunks of aspen on the mountainside beyond it looking like ranks of slim soldiers guarding the bench against the storms.

“Ma,” I said.

“All right, Bud,” she said quietly, “we've come home.”

And I started up the oxen and drove down into the valley where I was to become a man.

Ironwood Station

The riders met where the trails formed a Y with the main road. The man from the north was fat, with a narrow-brimmed hat and round cheeks. He raised a hand in greeting. “Mind if I ride along with you? Gets mighty lonesome, ridin' alone. I ain't seen even a jackrabbit last ten miles, an' a man can say just so much to a horse.

“Figured to make Ironwood Station before sundown. They feed passengers, an' I'm mighty tired of my own cookin'.” The fat man bit off a chunk of chewing tobacco and offered the plug to the other man, who shook his head. “Long empty stretch in here,” the fat man continued. Never see nobody 'ceptin' Utes, whom nobody wants to see.” The fat man glanced at his companion. “Ain't much for talkin', are you?”

“Not much.”

“Well, I'm ready for Dan Burnett's cookin'. That man can sure shake up a nice mess o' vittles. Makes a man's mouth water.”

“Somebody north of us,” the other rider said. “Somebody who doesn't want to follow a trail.”

The fat man glanced at him. “You hear something?”

“I smell dust.”

“Could be Utes. This here is Ute country.” The fat man was worried.

“The Utes have been killin' a lot of folks about here.”

“There's three … maybe four of them.”

“Now, how would you know that?”

“Dust from one horse wouldn't reach this far, but the dust from three or four would.”

“My name is Jones,” the fat man said. “What did you say your name was?”

“Talon … Shawn Talon.”

“Odd name. Don't reckon I ever heard that one before.”

“You would in County Wicklow. My father was Irish, with an after-coating of Texas.”

They rode in silence until they dipped into a hollow, and Talon drew up briefly. “Three riders,” Talon said, “on mighty fine horses. See the stride? A long stride and good action, although they've been riding a long time.”

“You read a lot from a few tracks.”

“Well, they've had to be riding a long time,” Talon said, smiling. “This isn't camping country, and where would a man come from to get here?”

Sun glinted on the rifle barrel a split instant before the bullet whipped past his ear, but the brief warning was enough. Talon slapped the spurs to his horse and was off with a bound, the report of a rifle cutting a slash across the hot still afternoon.

Ahead of him there was a burst of firing, and as the two men, riding neck and neck, came over the rise, they saw three others in a hollow among the rocks defending themselves against an attack by Utes. Glancing back, Talon saw several Indians closing in from behind them. Jumping their horses into the circle of rocks, Talon rolled on his side and began feeding shells into the Winchester. Briefly, he glanced at the other men.

The three strangers were tough, competent-looking men. One, a slim, dark man, had his holster tied down. He was unshaven and he glanced at Talon and grinned. “You showed up on time, mister.”

It was very hot. From time to time somebody thought they saw a target and fired, and from time to time the Utes fired back … but they were working closer. “Getting set for a rush,” Talon said aloud.

“Let 'em come,” the man with the tied-down gun said. “The quicker they try it, the quicker this will be over.”

Neither of his companions had said anything. One was a short, dark man, the other a burly fellow, huge and bearded. All three looked dirty, and showed evidence of long days in the saddle. Talon noticed that his talkative friend was suddenly very silent.

The rush came suddenly. Talon got in a quick shot with his rifle, and then the man with the tied-down holster was on his feet, his six-gun rolling a cannonade of sound into the hot afternoon. He shot fast and accurately. With his own eyes Talon saw three Indians drop under the gunman's fire before the attack broke. With his rifle Talon nailed another, and saw the gunman bring down the last Indian with a fifty-yard pistol shot.

“That was some shooting,” Talon commented.

The man glanced at him briefly. “It's my business,” he said.

In the distance, beyond the trail, dust arose. “Thought so,” the gunman said. “They're pullin' out.”

Talon waited a moment, watching the trail, and then he turned and walked toward his horse, standing with the other horses in the low ground behind the rocks. “Let's ride, Jones.”

They mounted up and the three men watched them in silence. The gunman stared at Talon as he swung his horse to ride out. “Something about you,” he said. “I've seen you before, somewhere.”

“No,” Talon said distinctly, “I don't believe so.”

“You ridin' west?”

“To Carson City, probably.”

“Make it definitely … you take my advice and don't stop this side.” The gunman grinned. “You might run into more Utes without me to protect you.”

Talon said, “You know something? You're in the wrong business.”

He loped his horse out of the basin without waiting for a reply, and Jones pulled in alongside him. Jones looked back over his shoulder. “You should be careful,” he said. “That was Lute Robeck back there. He's a mighty dangerous man. You see the way he emptied that six-gun?”

“He didn't empty it,” Talon said. “He had one shot left.”

The desert lay empty and still under the hot morning sun. Heat waves shimmered over the red-brown, sun-baked rocks of the distant mountains, but there was no other movement until a lone dust devil danced out of the greasewood clumps and gained size in the flatland, then died away to nothing.

 

In the back room of the stage station at Ironwood, Dan Burnett lay on his back with a broken hip and three broken ribs. It was close and hot in the small bedroom and he gasped painfully with every breath.

Kate Breslin, in the big main room of the station, went to the door for the fiftieth time and stared up the narrow, empty road that went down the flat and curved out of sight around the hill. The road was empty … in all that hot, vast, and brassy silence, nothing moved.

Kate Breslin was twice a widow, once by stampede and once by the gun, but at forty-five she was all western, with no idea of ever going elsewhere. She had rolled into Ironwood on the stage bound for Carson and they had found Dan Burnett dragging himself toward the station door with a broken hip … he had been kicked by a mule and was in bad shape.

Immediately, she volunteered to remain until a relief man could come and somebody to care for Dan. On impulse, Ruth Starkey had stayed with her. Now, as Ruth could plainly see, Kate was worried, and she was worried about something other than the injured man in the back bedroom.

“Can you handle a gun?” Kate asked suddenly.

“I've shot a rifle, if that's what you mean.”

“You may need to.…” Kate Breslin looked at her quickly. “You know what he told me? There's seventy thousand dollars in gold on that westbound stage … seventy thousand.”

“Does anybody know?”

“You darned tootin', somebody knows. Trouble is, they don't know who. Feller worked for the mining company, he suddenly took off, didn't even pick up his wages … he lit right out of town. They thought about holding the gold, then decided they would be safer to ship it. That's why Dan is so worried.”

“But don't they know about Dan?”

“West they do, but that gold's shipped from east of here … and back there they'll think Dan is on his toes. This is one place nobody will expect trouble.”

Ruth was standing in the door. “Kate,” she said, “two men are coming up the road … from the east.”

Kate Breslin joined her in the door. Two men riding toward them, both on fine, blooded horses, definitely not the sort of horses ridden by cowhands. One man was short and thickset, the other was a tall man.

“Be careful what you say,” Kate said. “You just be careful.”

When they rode up it was the tall man who spoke. “Ma'am, we've heard they served the best food along the line at Ironwood, and we're hungry. Could you manage to serve a meal for two?”

“I reckon,” Kate said. “Get down and come in.”

When they had stabled their horses, the two men came in and the fat one walked to the bar. “I'd like a whiskey,” he said, “I surely would.”

“Pour one for him, Ruth.” Kate was already rattling dishes in the kitchen. “I'll feed these men so they can get on their way. I expect they're in a hurry to get to Carson.”

Talon glanced at her and then at Ruth, momentarily puzzled by the presence of the women. His eyes strayed toward the closed door of the bedroom, but what it was or who was there, Talon had no idea. He sensed that for some reason his presence was not wanted, and he wondered why this was so. He was a sensitive man, aware of changes in the atmosphere, and he was aware of a subtle coldness now.

He had not expected to find women here, and the younger one, the one called Ruth, was extremely pretty … but an eastern girl or one who had lately been east. Disturbed, he walked outside and went to the stable, where the mules that pulled the stage over this rough stretch were kept. There were twelve of them, and walking past the stalls, he suddenly glimpsed a gun, half-concealed by the hay on the barn floor.

He picked it up, a worn Remington pistol, but well kept and oiled … the man who owned a gun so well kept would not be one to leave it lying carelessly on the dirt floor. Curious, aware of a mystery here, he looked slowly around the long building. The fallen gun was directly behind a stall, and at that point the dirt of the floor was stirred up by boot marks … he tried to work out the sign but could make nothing of it, although it looked like a scuffle had taken place. Whatever it was, it had made the owner forget his pistol.

Walking outside, he looked carefully around, and there was little to see. The mules, the barn, the corrals, and several haystacks aside from what hay was in the barn itself. A couple of poles leaned against the side of the house with two coats buttoned around them to make a crude stretcher. So that was it … somebody had been hurt.

Strolling across the yard, he stopped to light a cigarette and glanced out of the corner of his eyes at the stretcher. He was close to it now, but he could see no signs of blood, such as would be visible if the man had been shot or injured so that he would bleed.

Jones stepped outside. “Woman in there is Kate Breslin,” he said. “Dan's off in the hills rounding up a beef.”

“Dan a friend of yours?”

“Sure … that is, we talk friendly, and we feel friendly. I don't know Dan the best, but I've stopped by here six, eight times.”

“Doesn't make much sense, rounding up a beef when they've plenty of supplies in the station … not with the Utes running wild over the country.”

“Could be, though.” Jones glanced at Talon. “What's wrong? You got something in mind?”

“They're hiding something.” Talon jerked his head to indicate the women. “There's something wrong around here.” He slid the Remington from his belt. “You ever see this before?”

“Sure. That's Dan's gun. I'd know it anywhere.”

“Think he'd be apt to go into the mountains without it? I found it lying in the barn, half-covered with hay.”

“Dan's hurt … got to be. He was a careful man with a gun, cared for 'em well, and he never left one lyin' around careless.”

Kate Breslin appeared in the door, staring at them suspiciously. “You can eat,” she said. “I don't want to hold you up any longer'n I have to.”

The food was good, the usual beef, beans, and biscuits of the frontier, but potatoes had been added, and beside each plate was a healthy slab of apple pie. Dried apples, Talon reflected, but pie, anyway.

He glanced again at the carefully closed door. Ruth was pouring coffee, and he said, “Burnett should be getting back. What time's the stage due?”

The hands pouring the coffee trembled a little and the girl straightened. “There's plenty of time. Dan will be back, all right.”

He took out the gun. “Better give this to him. I found it in the barn.”

She picked up the gun quickly, almost snatched it from him, and Talon glimpsed Kate listening in the door to the kitchen. “It's all right … he has another.”

Talon refilled his cup from the coffeepot and began to build a smoke. Were they worried because they were two women alone? It might be, but he doubted it. Maybe Ruth might worry, although she looked like a girl who could take care of herself, but Kate Breslin wouldn't. She had been in such positions too many times to be daunted by the presence of men, and she would know what to do. So what, then, was wrong?

His thoughts returned suddenly to the gunman on the trail behind them. Odd, when a man came to think of it. “I wonder what became of our friends?” he asked mildly.

Jones looked up from his pie. “On their way, prob'ly.”

“They were riding west when we met them.”

Jones tore off a slab of bread and began to butter it, ignoring the biscuits. He looked at Talon, his mouth full and chewing, then the chewing slowed and Jones looked thoughtful. “Maybe they turned off,” he suggested lamely.

“To where? This is a big, empty country.” Talon lit his cigarette.

“Remember his advice? To keep riding for Carson? He sounded like he didn't want us to stop this side of there.”

“So?”

“So we've stopped … and this might be the place he didn't want us to stop.”

“I don't figure it … what you gettin' at?”

“These women are scared about something, and this is the loneliest stage stop in the country … and back along the trail we meet three very handy men riding horses no cowhand could afford, horses with speed and staying quality.”

“You think they were outlaws? I noticed them horses.”

“What else?”