The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (14 page)

“Childs? Childs, did you say? Didn't you know it was Childs and the Block C who was fighting me?”

He looked over at Brewer. “You're welcome to her, Brewer. If she can go back on one man so easily, she will go back on another.”

“If I was wearing a gun—”

“What then? If you like, I'll take mine off.”

“I am not a cheap brawler. You had better go now. I think you have made Miss Day unhappy enough.”

Rod Morgan turned sharply away, and started for the door. Behind him he half-heard a stifled cry as if she were calling out to him, but he did not turn.

He had just reached his horse when he saw Jed Blue. Without waiting for an explanation, he turned toward him, knowing what was about to happen.

“Son,” Blue spoke quietly, “Dally Hart's over there. He says he'll shoot on sight.”

“Let him! I'm in the mood for it! If he wants trouble, he sure picked the right time. I'm sick of being pushed around, and if I'm to have the name of a killer I might as well pay my dues.”

“Watch yourself, son!” Blue said. “There may be more than one. I'll try to cover you, but keep your eyes open.”

Rod Morgan started up the street, spurs jingling as he walked. Inside he was boiling, but he knew he must steady down, for Dally Hart was a dangerous man, much more so than his brother Reuben had been. Suddenly he found himself hating everything around him. He had come to the town a friendly stranger, asking no favors of anyone, and almost from the first he had faced dislike and even hatred. Someone, he was sure, was guiding the feeling against him, disclaiming the stories yet repeating them, and that person could be he who had killed both Tolbert and Weisl.

That person might also be the one who knew where the gold was buried, knew what had happened so long ago in Buckskin Run.

But who could possibly know? How could he know? He … or was it she?

At that instant Rod Morgan saw Dally Hart.

The gunman had been standing behind a horse; now he stepped into the open with his back to the sun, putting the full glare in Rod's eyes.

They were over a hundred yards apart, but Rod was walking swiftly. Sights and sounds were wiped from his world, and all he could see was the slim, tall figure with the high-crowned hat standing in the middle of the street.

Vaguely, he was aware that men had come from the stores and were lining the street, oblivious of the danger of ricocheting bullets. Dust arose in little puffs as he walked, and he could feel the heat of the sun on his face. His body seemed strangely light, but each foot seemed to fall hard to the ground as he walked.

He was going to kill this man. Suddenly all the hatred, the trouble and confusion seemed to center in the slim man with the taunting, challenging eyes and the hatchet face who was awaiting him.

He was sixty yards away, forty yards. Rod saw Dally's fingers spread a little. Thirty yards. The expression on Hart's face changed; his tongue touched his lips. Rod was walking fast, closing the distance.

Twenty yards, eighteen, sixteen—

There were men, he knew, who, proud of their marksmanship, preferred distance for their shooting, but as the distance grew less and less they became aware that at short range neither man was likely to miss. Luke Short, the Dodge City gunfighter, always crowded his foes, crowded them until they lost their poise and began to back up to get distance.

Fourteen yards—

Dally Hart's nerve broke and he went for his gun. Incredibly fast, and the gun lifted in a smooth, unbroken movement. It came level and flowered with sudden flame, then his own gun bucked in his hand, and bucked again.

Dally Hart wavered, then steadied. Something was wrong with his face. His gun came up and he fired. A blow struck Morgan. His legs went weak under him, and he fired again. Hart's face seemed to turn dark, then crimson, and the gunman toppled into the dust.

From somewhere behind him a gun bellowed and as from a great distance he heard Jed Blue saying, “That was one! Who will be the next to die?”

         

There was a rectangle of sunlight lying inside the cabin door, and beyond it Rod could see the green, waving grass of Buckskin Run. He could hear the muted sound of the stream as it boiled over the rocks, gathering force to charge the bottleneck.

He was home, in his own cabin. He turned his head. Everything was as he had last seen it, except for one thing. There was another bed across the room, a bed carefully made up. The table was scrubbed clean, the room freshly swept. He wondered about that, wondered vaguely how long he had been here and who had brought him back.

In the midst of his wondering he fell asleep, and when he again opened his eyes it was dark beyond the door and a lamp glowed on the table. He could hear vague movements, a rustling as of garments, and he felt that if he lay still he would soon see whoever was in the room.

While he was waiting he fell asleep again, and when he awakened it was morning again and sunlight was shining through the doorway. Then he saw something else. Jed Blue was crouched near the window but well out of sight. The door was barred, and someone was moving about outside.

Rod started to lift himself up when he heard a voice he recognized as Josh Shipton's. “Halloo, in there? Anybody to home?”

Blue made no reply. It was grotesque to see the big man crouching in silence. What was he afraid of? What could Jed Blue possibly fear from Shipton? Yet it was obvious Blue did not wish to be seen.

After a while Jed Blue stood up and, standing first to one side and then to the other, peered out the window. After a careful look around, he unbarred the door. Rod hastily closed his eyes, then, after a bit, stirred on the bed and simulated awakening. When he opened his eyes the big, bearded man was standing over him.

“Coming out of it, are you?'

“What happened?”

“You killed Dally Hart, but he got two bullets into you. I was almighty busy for a few minutes, and had to pack you out of town before I could patch you up. You lost a sight of blood, and the trip back here didn't do you any good.”

“You were in it, too, weren't you? I thought I heard you shoot.”

“That Block C coyote Bob Carr tried to shoot you in the back. After he went down I had to hold a gun on the others whilst we rolled our tails out of town.”

“How long have I been here?”

“A week or so. You were in a bad way.”

“Any other trouble?”

“Some. Jake Sarran, that Block C ramrod, rode in here with a dozen hands. Said as soon as you could ride you were to get out, and they weren't warning you again.”

“To Hell with that! I'm staying.”

“Want a partner? My offer still stands.”

“Why not? We're cut from the same leather, I think.”

Rod was silent. He wanted to ask about Loma, but was ashamed to. He waited, hoping Blue would offer some hint as to what had happened to her. Was she married? Rod sighed, trying not to think of her. After all, she had thrown him over for Mark Brewer. Still, he had to make allowances. After all, she hadn't seen him in two years, then to hear nothing but bad about him, and then to see him kill another man—

His thoughts shifted to the vanished wagons and the gold, then to the strange actions of Jed Blue when Shipton came around.

Why had Blue not wished to be seen by Josh Shipton? Or had there been others outside, and Josh simply the bait to draw him out to be killed? It was possible.

Despite his curiosity he had no doubt there was a sensible explanation, and had no doubts about his new partner. After all, the man had saved his life, had gotten him out of town when they would certainly have either killed him or let him die. Few men would dare challenge the power of the Block C, and from the memory of the horses he had seen he knew the Block C had been out in force.

Lying there through the long day he tried to find an answer for the Block C's enmity for him; so much hatred could not stem from his original fight with Carr, nor even the shooting of Reuben Hart, which had been forced on him.

Behind it there had to be a reason, and he had a hunch the trouble stemmed from the man he had never seen—Henry Childs himself.

Hour after hour, as he lay in bed, he tried to find answers to the problem of the gold and the wagons. Three men had died and been buried, three wagons had vanished along with much gold and gear. It was not until the last day he was in bed that the idea came to him, an idea so fantastic that at first he could not believe it could be possible; yet the more he considered it, the more it seemed the only possible solution.

He was recovering rapidly, and when he could sit outside in the sun, even walk a little by favoring his bad leg, he could see many evidences of Jed Blue's work. Certainly the big man did not intend just to come along for the ride.

A comfortable bench had been built, encircling a large tree close to the house, a shady, comfortable place in which to sit. A new workbench stood near the log barn, and a parapet of stones had been built, fastened with some home-made mortar. This parapet faced the canyon entrance, and had loopholes for firing. It had been built, however, so it could not be used by anyone attacking the house, for a rifleman from the house could command both sides of it, because of the angle at which it was built.

A water-barrel had been moved into the house and kept full. Several steers had been slaughtered, and the meat jerked. It was hung up inside the house. Every precaution had been taken for a full-scale siege, if it came to that.

On a shelf near the door were several boxes of pistol and rifle ammunition. Obviously, Blue had been to town, so he must know what had become of Loma.

On the fourth day on which Rod could be outside he saddled the gray and, getting a steel hook from the odds and ends on the workbench in the blacksmith shop, he took an extra length of rope and rode up the canyon toward the basin. Blue had left early and Rod had talked with him but a few minutes. He supposed the other man had ridden to town, but Jed had said nothing about his destination.

Rod was quite sure he knew now what had become of the vanished wagons. Come what may, in the next few hours he would know for sure.

He understood something else. Both Weisl and Tolbert had been killed in the canyon, and both apparently after arriving at a solution or coming close to it. He would have to be very, very careful!

         

Rod Morgan's sudden appearance at Em Shipton's had startled and upset Loma. Try as she might, she could not get his face from her mind, nor the hurt expression on his face when Mark told him she was to marry him, Mark Brewer.

She had been standing in the boardinghouse when she heard the shots, and she had rushed to the door, panic-stricken that Rod might have been killed or hurt. Mark Brewer caught her arm and stopped her.

“Better not go out! You might be killed! It is always the innocent ones who are hurt, and it is probably just Rod Morgan killing somebody else.”

He had drawn her to him and kissed her lightly before turning to the door. She learned two things in that instant. She did not like to be kissed by Mark Brewer, and he had lied. He
was
carrying a gun. He was carrying it in a shoulder holster, for it pressed against her when she was in his arms.

She knew all about shoulder holsters because her uncle had been a plainclothes detective at a time when they were first beginning to be used in the East. She had not seen one since coming west.

Why had he lied? Was he afraid of Rod? Or did he merely wish to avoid trouble? Yet the lie worried her. There seemed to be something underhanded about that gun, for she had heard several times that Mark Brewer never wore a gun. Apparently no one believed he wore a gun, yet certainly he did.

The thought rankled as the days went by. She heard that Rod had killed Dally Hart and Jed Blue had killed Bob Carr. It was not until the third day that she heard that Rod Morgan had been seriously wounded and that Jed Blue had carried him out of town.

He might be dead! Horrified, she for the first time considered her own situation. She knew none of these people. Rod she had known for a long time. He had always been a gentleman and a fine man. Could he change so quickly? Or was something else happening here of which she knew nothing?

Coming downstairs from her room at Em Shipton's, she heard Rod's name mentioned in the dining room and stopped on the steps.

The voice was that of Jeff Cordell, whom she knew as one of the four men who had faced Rod that day beside the stage.

“Got to hand it to him,” Cordell was saying. “Morgan has plenty of nerve, and I've never seen a faster hand with a gun. Why, that day on the trail he could have got me sure as shootin' if I'd moved a hand. I'd lay odds he'd have gotten three or maybe all of us.”

“Speaking of fast hands,” said another voice, “what about that Jed Blue?”

“He's good, all right. Bob Carr never knew what hit him. You know, that Blue puzzles me. Where did he come from? Why did he tie in with Morgan? He claims he was in here with Kit Carson, but I know the name of everyone who ever rode with Kit, and none of them was named Blue.”

Somebody laughed. “You always use the same name, Jeff? I doubt if Childs has a single rider who uses his real name. Hell, we've all had our ups and downs.”

“What will come of it, Jeff?” asked the other voice.

“Morgan will be killed. You can't beat Childs. If he doesn't want a man in the country, he doesn't stay. Jed Blue will get it, too.”

“Why? What's his idea?”

“Don't try. Don't even think about it. You're getting twice a regular cowhand's wages, so just do what you're told and keep your trap shut. Childs knows why, and Brewer knows. Personally, I think the two of them are land-hungry. This is good country, and they want to control it. Can't blame 'em for that.”

Aloma had gone on to her room, and after she undressed and got into bed she could not sleep. What she had overheard disturbed her. There
was
a plot against Rod Morgan, just as Rod had implied. Childs
did
want him killed.