Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Her camp, when he reached it, was almost perfect. The rimrock had caved in underneath, leaving a shelf that overhung a small area within the rimrock itself. There was room enough for the fire and a bed under the rim shelf, and a place for three or four horses in a sort of pocket not under the shelf. The camp was hidden, with no way it could be seen from above or below until one rode right up to it. Obviously the girl had spent the night here.

  She rode back shortly, leading his horse, and when she had tied it, she joined him under the rim, throwing off her slicker. Her wet black hair hung down over her shoulders.

  “We’ve been expectin’ you, Val,” she said. “Pa, he said you’d be along soon. We’ve been hopin’ you’d come.”

  “How is your pa?”

  “Fair to middlin’. He’s packin’ a Kiowa bullet picked up last spring. Ails him some when it’s wet or cold.”

  “And the others?”

  “They’re all right. Cody had him a mite of shootin’ over to Fort Griffin. Some fancy gent in a flowered vest had words with him.”

  “But Cody’s all right?”

  “Sure.”

  She had put the coffeepot on, and now she turned to him. “You’d better let me look at that wound. You tenderfeet sicken up almighty fast, seems to me.”

  “I’m no tenderfoot. I was born in this country.”

  “I know, but you’ve been living it high and handsome back east.” She helped him off with his coat and shirt. She looked at his powerful muscles with approval. “Well, all that beef hasn’t gone soft, anyway.”

  The wound was not serious. The bullet had struck the top of his shoulder and glanced off, tearing the muscle some, and he had lost blood.

  “In those fancy stories a girl always tears her white petticoat and makes a bandage. Well, I haven’t got a white petticoat—never had one—and if I did I wouldn’t tear it up for no man. Not unless he was in dyin’ shape.”

  “There are a couple of clean white handkerchiefs in the pack behind my saddle,” Val suggested.

  She got them out. “My, aren’t we the fancy one!” She looked critically at the handkerchiefs. “You’ve become a real dude, I see.”

  Val watched her. He had never, anywhere, seen so beautiful a girl. She was wild, free, and uninhibited as an animal. “Aren’t you a ways from home?” he asked.

  “It isn’t so far, not across country. I like to ride. I like to see a lot of country, and I’m not worried. I can ride and shoot as good as any man, and better than most. I can also use a knife.”

  “Pretty dangerous. I’ll bet all the men are scared to death of you.”

  She flushed. “Maybe,” she said, lifting her eyes to him, “but it wouldn’t do them any good if they weren’t. I’m spoken for.”

  He felt a twinge of disappointment that startled him. “I’m surprised,” he said.

  Her head came up from the coffee she was pouring. “Oh? You don’t think I’m good enough?”

  “Oh, you’re good enough, all right. Maybe too good. You’ve got a streak of broncho in you, I think, and you’d need a man who’d bridle you with a Spanish bit.”

  She gave him another of those straight glances. “I’d handle with a hackamore for the right man,” she said, “and no other could do it, Spanish bit or no.”

  When he had finished his coffee she broke camp quickly and efficiently, brushing aside his efforts to help. “Save it, tenderfoot, you’ll need all your strength.”

  “Not if you’re spoken for,” he said. She turned on him sharply and seemed about to speak, then swung astride her horse. Only then did he notice that she wore a divided skirt. He had heard of them, but had never seen one. All the women he had known rode sidesaddle. It was considered the only ladylike way.

  “If you can sit your saddle,” she said, “we can make it tonight…late.”

  “I’ll be with you,” he said, and she led off at a lope.

  The sky was heavily overcast, although the rain had stopped and there was no more thunder and lightning. The ground was soggy and slippery, but they made good time, with Boston leading the way.

  So far as he could see, there were no landmarks. The caprock was level and seemed to reach to the horizon on all sides. By the time they were a few hundred yards from the canyon they could no longer tell that it was there. Val studied the ground for tracks that might have been left by the would-be killer, but there were none.

  * * *

  —

  THE RANCH LAY in a hollow among the hills, the spring at the back, a little higher in the notch. That notch was lined with trees, and other trees were growing about the place.

  There was a good-sized, two-story ranch house with a balcony, and with a wide veranda all around. There were two large barns for the best riding stock, some milk cows, and the storage of feed, and there were several corrals and a bunkhouse.

  Boston drew up on the slope and swept a wide gesture toward the valley. “Well, there she lays. Did we do right by you?”

  “You surely did. It’s beautiful.”

  She glanced at him. “I think so. Pa said we’d have to make it so. He said you were the kind of man who would want it to look nice.”

  Cody Bucklin came up from the corral as they neared the house. “Pa will be pleased,” he said. “I knowed it was you when you topped out on the rise. It’s the way you set a horse,” he said.

  Pa rode in with the last light, Tardy and Duke beside him. “We’ve been makin’ a tally,” he said. “We’ll drive a herd to Kansas this year.”

  He studied Val thoughtfully. “You’ve taken on some size, boy, and some beef in the shoulders.”

  His eyes went to Boston. “So she found you, did she? Boston allowed as how if you didn’t come back, she was a-going after you. Be careful, boy.”

  “Pa!” Boston said. “You’re just a-makin’ that up!”

  When suppertime came they seated themselves about the table, and Pa Bucklin said grace. Val looked around at their faces, and suddenly he felt at home. At home with these people he had known so slightly, yet with whom he had made a business pact that had proved itself, and with whom he felt strangely warm and comfortable.

  He felt their easy understanding, their friendship, their sympathy. They were strong, honest people, hard-working, hard-fighting, but simple in their ways.

  They knew that not all men are men of good will; they knew there was evil in the world, and stood strong against it. They knew that there were some who would take by force what they would not work to acquire. They knew, as Val did, that outside their windows waited hunger, thirst, and cold; that beyond their doors there were savage men, held in restraint only by a realization of another force ready to oppose them, to preserve the world they had built from savagery into order and peace, where each man might work and build and create without the threat of destruction.

  Betsy came into the room, bringing a platter of steak. She was tall, as Boston was, almost queenly. Val glanced again at Pa. How had such women come from this gnarled and hard-shelled man? Yet they were here, slender, shapely, and beautiful.

  “We’ve got four workin’ cowhands now, Val,” Pa said, “and a grub-line rider who drifted in a few days ago huntin’ you.”

  “Me?”

  “Calls himself Tensleep. Said he had word for you.” Pa Bucklin paused to chew on his steak, and then added, “Looks like a right tough man.”

  “He’s an outlaw, Pa, but he’s been a good friend to me. I met him when I was five,” he added, “and I’ve seen him around since. After supper I’d better hear what he has to say. He isn’t given to talking through his hat.”

  “He’s a good hand. He’s turned out for work every day since he came, and he works fast and steady. I’d say he’s as good a man with stock as I ever did see.”

  “Does he want a job?”


  “Ain’t said. I’d say he’s been up the trail and over the mountain, and he’d like to light an’ keep his feet under the table for a spell.”

  Then Bucklin looked sharply at him. “You figurin’ on stayin’ a while? We’ve made provision. You’ve got a separate wing of the house for your ownself. The girls furnished it, so if you have complaint, speak to them.”

  “I…I’m not sure.” Val looked over at Boston, then turned his eyes away. “I would like to stay, but there is much I have to do. And I don’t know yet what I want my life to be. Or where I want to live.”

  “You got call to be restless, never staying put all your born days.”

  Val told them then of the places he’d seen, of the men and the women, of the gowns and the wine and the music, and the world beyond the rim of the hills out there, beyond the caprock and beyond the Brazos. He told of the work he had done, of the loneliness, and of Van Clevern; and then, of Myra.

  After talking a long time he got up from the table, and the girls cleared the dishes away. He said to Pa, “I’d better go see Tensleep.”

  It was cool out on the dark veranda. He went down the steps to the yard, and he could see the rectangles of light from the bunkhouse windows and the glow of a cigarette from the stoop. He started across the hard-packed earth, listening to the pleasant sound of the horses feeding in the corral, and when he turned once to look back at the big house and its windows, he heard the sound of male voices, then laughter from the girls.

  He strolled toward the bunkhouse and said, “Tensleep?”

  “He’s in yonder, a-waitin’ for you. He spotted you the minute you skylined yourself up on the ridge.” Then he added, “I’m Waco.”

  “Val Darrant. Glad to meet you, Waco.”

  He opened the door and stepped into the bunkhouse. There were bunks for eight men, three of them empty of bedclothes. The men inside looked up, and two of them then returned to their checker game, while another watched. Tensleep was lying on his bunk, but he sat up and swung his boots to the floor.

  “Howdy, Val. I come a fur piece, a-huntin’ you.” He took up his hat, and they went outside, walking to the corral.

  Val was thinking: He’s thinner…older…and if anything, tougher.

  At the corral, Tensleep turned to him. “Boy, you in any kinda trouble? Anything I can take off your back?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “You sure?” He could feel Tensleep’s eyes on him.

  “Somebody shot at me. I’m carrying a scratch on my shoulder. Either he figured me for dead, or was scared off when Boston Bucklin rode up. Anyway he ran off. I think it was Thursty Pike.”

  “Him? He’d be likely to do that. I heard he was in Tascosa.”

  “I saw him there. He left town.”

  Tensleep chuckled. “He did if he was smart. Boy, you made yourself a name with Chip Hardesty. They’re still talkin’ about it.”

  “I don’t want the name. What’s on your mind, Tensleep?”

  “The Pinks,” he said, “they’re huntin’ you. And when they hunt you they find you.”

  “The Pinks?” Val’s mind was a momentary blank, then it came to him: the Pinkertons. But why would they be hunting him?

  “Well,” he said, “it’s not for anything I’ve done. But somebody must want to find me.” He studied the idea, and could think of no one. He had been in touch with Bricker. Van Clevern was dead. There was no one…no one at all. He said as much, but Tensleep snorted.

  “Don’t you believe it. Somebody wants you almighty bad. They’ve had men a-huntin’ you up and down the country, and that costs money. I never knew even Wells Fargo to spend so much. I got wind of it, and put some feelers out.” He looked up at Val. “I got friends, you know—I hear things. You done wrong to some woman?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the way the story goes, it’s a woman huntin’ you.”

  Myra…

  She had the money, and she might know of him. She might want to find him…but for what?

  “It might be Myra,” he said.

  Tensleep stiffened. “Boy, you watch your step. That ain’t no woman, that’s a rattler. She’s pure poison.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Myra! I never gave a thought to her. I ain’t seen or heard of her in years.”

  “She’s been back east,” Val said. “She’s made a mint of money and a name for herself.”

  “I bet you,” Tensleep muttered. “Watch yourself, boy. I wouldn’t trust her a foot.” He paused. “Whatever became of that fancy man of hers?”

  “He’s dead…accident.”

  “I’ll bet,” Tensleep said cynically. “He knew where the body was buried—all the bodies. If she’s big, she can’t afford him.” Tensleep dug in his pocket for the makings and built himself a smoke. “And she can’t afford you, neither. Look, boy, if you saw anything of Van, she’ll figure he told you some things about her.

  “Van was always a pretty good man,” he went on. “He hadn’t no more backbone than so much spaghetti, but he always had a ready hand if a man was on his uppers. I figured him for a straight one…there was no thief in him…trouble was, she had him wrapped around her little finger. He was roped and hog-tied by that woman.”

  Long after Val was back in the wing of the house the girls had prepared for him, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

  Of course, Tensleep was right. Van had been murdered. It was all too pat. And now she—or somebody—had the Pinkertons looking for him. The Pinks might be strikebreakers, they might be strong-arm men, but so far as he knew they weren’t killers. However, once he was located, there were other men who could handle that.

  Perhaps that shot today? No…that was Pike. He was sure of that in his own mind. He also knew that Pike would still be around.

  His thoughts went back to Tensleep and the end of their conversation. The old outlaw had said, “Boy, I like this place. I’m riding the grub-line here, but—well—I sure enough care for it. If they’d take me on, I’d hang up my saddle.”

  “They like you, Tensleep,” Val had said, “and they like your work. I’ll speak to Pa Bucklin.”

  “Thanks.” Tensleep had thrust out his hand. “Boy, that there cabin in the snow is a long time back, ain’t it? An’ Will Reilly, and all?”

  “And Henry Sonnenberg,” Val added.

  “Yeah—there’s him, all right,” Tensleep said. “Boy, you want I should go get him? I could find him. I was never afraid of Henry—he was never up to taking me on. My hand may not be as steady, but if you want—”

  “Forget it. He killed Will Reilly…he and Thursty Pike are still left. I want them myself. And I want Sonnenberg most of all.”

  At last his eyes closed, and he slept. On the far ridge above the ranch a lone rider stopped and looked down at the spread below him. He sat there a long time before he rode away…but his day would come.

  CHAPTER 19

  AT DAYBREAK BOSTON rode away from the ranch and headed south. It was a sixteen-mile ride she had ahead of her, but when she made up her mind to do something she was not one to waste time.

  She was crossing the creek below the ranch when she saw the tracks, and drew up. This was not one of the ranch horses, for she knew every hoof on the place. This was a strange horse, with a long, swinging gait, and the tracks were fresh, probably not more than four or five hours old. She thought of the man who had shot at Val, but at present she would not consider this—she had to go ahead with her errand.

  She reached the Winslow place well before noon, and rode into the ranch yard and swung down. Melissa Winslow came out on the porch to greet her. “Boston! Of all people! Do come in!”

  Boston went up the steps, spurs jingling. “Mel, I need your help.”

  “My help? You?” Melissa smiled. “I would have believed you were the one person in the world who wou
ld never need help from anyone.”

  “I want to be a lady.”

  Melissa glanced at her again. “I never knew you when you weren’t. What’s all this about?”

  “Valentine Darrant. I’m in love with him.”

  “You mean he’s come back? After all this time?”

  “He has, and he’s…he’s just wonderful.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you say that about any man. But do you mean he has complained? He doesn’t like you? The man’s obviously a fool.”

  “I think he likes me. I really believe he does; but Mel, I’m too rough. He didn’t say that, I’m saying it. I want to know how to act like a lady, how to talk, how to eat the proper way…I want to know it all.”

  “You must be in love,” Mel said. “All that for just one man?”

  “Yes.” Boston sat up eagerly. “Mel, it’s got to be fast. I’ll work at it. You know I can. He’ll be going east again and I wouldn’t want him to think he had to be ashamed of me. You’ve lived in the East. You grew up there. I’ve never lived anywhere except on a ranch, and Ma died when I was so young. Will you help me?”

  “Of course.” She looked at Boston again. “But I hate to spoil you. There are a lot of ladies, but I never knew anyone like you. You’re the only one of your kind, Boston. I shudder to think what you’d do to the men if you weren’t a good girl.”

  “Don’t call me that. It sounds so…so prissy.”

  Before the long day was over, Melissa was sure of two things: Boston was instinctively a lady, and she was also a natural actress, graceful and easy, with an ear attuned to the proper usage of words.

  Val had slept late that morning, awakening to a painful shoulder, and a stiffness, especially in his right leg, that hampered his movements. Breakfast time was long past, but Betsy brought his and sat down with him.

  “Where’s Boston?” he asked.

  “She left a note. She rode off this morning before daylight and she’ll be gone overnight and tomorrow.”