Draw Straight

by Louis L'Amour

  The ledge had at one time been deeply gouged and worn by running water. Picking up a torch, Marcy turned and glanced away into the darkness. There lay the old dry channel, deeply worn and polished by former running water.

  At some time in the past, this had been the route of the stream underground. In an earthquake or some breakthrough of the rock, the water had taken the new course.

  Thoughtfully, Marcy calculated his situation. He was fearful of his predicament. From the first moment of consciousness in that utter darkness, he had been so. There is no fear more universal than the fear of entombment alive, the fear of choking, strangling in utter darkness beyond the reach of help.

  Mac Marcy was no fool. He was, he knew, beyond the reach of help. The moros was ground-hitched in a spot where there was plenty of grass and water. The grayish-black horse would stay right there.

  No one, with the exception of Sally, ever went to the top of the rim. It was highly improbable that she would go again soon. In many cases, weeks would go by without anyone stopping by Marcy’s lonely cabin. If he was going to get out of this hole, he would have to do it by his own efforts.

  One glance up that fall showed him there was no chance of going back up the way he had come down. Working his way over to the next step downward of the fall, he held out his torch and peered below. All was utter blackness, with only the cold damp of falling water in the air.

  Fear was mounting within him now, but he fought it back, forcing himself to be calm and to think carefully. The old dry channel remained a vague hope. But, to all appearances, it went deeper and deeper into the stygian blackness of the earth. He put more fuel on his fire and started exploring again. Fortunately, the wood he was burning was bone dry and made almost no smoke.

  Torch in hand, he started down the old dry channel. This had been a watercourse for many, many years. The rock was worn and polished. He had gone no more than sixty feet when the channel divided.

  On the left was a black, forbidding hole, scarcely waist high. Down that route most of the water seemed to have gone, as it was worn the deepest.

  On the right was an opening almost like a doorway. Marcy stepped over to it and held his torch out. It also was a black hole. He had a sensation of awful depth. Stepping back, he picked up a rock. Leaning out, he dropped it into the hole on the right.

  For a long time, he listened. Then, somewhere far below, there was a splash. This hole was literally hundreds of feet deep. It would end far below the level of the land on which his cabin stood.

  He drew back. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and, when he put his hand to it, his brow felt cold and clammy. He looked at the black waist-high hole on the left and felt fear rise within him as he had never felt it before. He drew back and wet his lips.

  His torch was almost burned out. Turning with the last of its light, he retraced his steps to the ledge by the fall.

  How long he had been below ground, he didn’t know. He looked up, and there was still a feeble light from above. But it seemed to have grown less. Had night almost come?

  Slowly, he built a new torch. This was his last chance of escape. It was a chance he had already begun to give up. Of them all, that black hole on the left was least promising, but he must explore it.

  He pulled his hat down a little tighter and started back to where the tunnel divided into two holes. His jaw was set grimly. He got down on his hands and knees and edged into the black hole on the left.

  Once inside, he found it fell away steeply in a mass of loose boulders. Scrambling over them, he came to a straight, steep fall of at least ten feet. Glancing at the sheer drop, he knew one thing—once down there, he would never get back up.

  Holding his torch high, he looked beyond. Nothing but darkness. Behind him there was no hope. He hesitated and then got down on his hands and knees, lowered himself over the edge, and dropped ten feet.

  This time he had to be right, for there was no going back. He walked down a slanting tunnel. It seemed to be growing darker. Glancing up at his torch, he saw it was burning out. In a matter of minutes, he would be in total darkness.

  He walked faster and faster. Then he broke into a stumbling run, fear rising within him. Something brought him up short, and for a moment he did not see what had caused him to halt in his blind rush. Then hope broke over him like a cold shower of rain.

  There on the sand beneath his feet were tiny tracks. He bent over them. A pack rat or some other tiny creature. Getting up, he hurried on, and, seeing a faint glow ahead, he rushed around a bend. There before him was the feeble glow of the fading day. His torch guttered and went out.

  He walked on to the cave mouth, trembling in every limb. Mac Marcy was standing in an old watercourse that came out from behind some boulders not two miles from his cabin.

  He stumbled home and fell into his bunk, almost too tired to undress.

  * * * * *

  Marcy awakened to a frantic pounding on his door. Staggering erect, he pulled on his boots, yelling out as he did so. Then he drew on his Levi’s and shirt and opened the door, buttoning his shirt with one hand.

  Sally, her face deathly pale, was standing outside. Beyond her gray mare stood Marcy’s moros. At the sight of him, the grayish-black horse lifted his head and pricked up his ears.

  “Oh,” Sally gasped. “I thought you were dead … drowned.”

  He stepped over beside her.

  “No,” he said, “I guess I’m still here. You’re pretty scared, ma’am. What’s there for you to be scared about?”

  “Why,” she burst out impatiently, “if you …” She caught herself and stopped abruptly. “After all,” she continued coolly, “no one wants to find a friend drowned.”

  “Ma’am,” he said sincerely, “if you get that wrought up, I’ll get myself almost drowned every day.”

  She stared at him and then smiled. “I think you’re a fool,” she said. She mounted and turned. “But a nice fool.”

  Marcy stared after her thoughtfully. Well now, maybe …

  He glanced down at his boots. Where they had lain in the pool, there was water-stain on them. Also, there was a small green leaf clinging to the rough leather. He stooped and picked it off, wadded it up, and started to throw it away when he was struck by an idea. He unfolded the leaf and studied the veins. Suddenly, his face broke into a grin.

  “Boy,” he said to the moros, “we got us a job to do, even if you do need a rest.” He swung into the saddle and rode back toward the watercourse, still grinning.

  * * * * *

  It was midafternoon when he returned to the cabin and ate a leisurely lunch, still chuckling. Then he mounted again and started for the old water hole that had been fenced by Jingle Bob Kenyon.

  When Marcy rounded the bend, he could see that something was wrong. A dozen men were gathered around the water hole. Nearby and astride her gray was Sally.

  The men were in serious conference, and they did not notice Marcy’s approach. He rode up, leaning on the horn of the saddle, and watched them, smiling.

  Suddenly, Vin Ricker looked up. His face went hard.

  Mac Marcy swung down and strolled up to the fence, leaning casually on a post.

  “What’s up?”

  “The water hole’s gone dry!” Kenyon exploded. “Not a drop o’ water in it.”

  Smothering a grin, Marcy rolled a smoke.

  “Well,” he said philosophically, “the Lord giveth and He taketh away. No doubt it’s the curse of the Lord for your greed, Jingle Bob.”

  Kenyon glared at him suspiciously. “You know somethin’ about this?” he demanded. “Man, in this hot weather my cattle will die by the hundreds. Somethin’s got to be done.”

  “Seems to me,” Marcy said dryly, “I have heard those words before.”

  Sally was looking at him over her father’s head, her face grave and questioning. But she said nothing, gav
e no sign of approval or disapproval.

  “This here’s a man’s country,” Marcy said seriously. “You fork your own broncs, and you get your own water.”

  Kenyon flushed. “Marcy, if you know anythin’ about this, for goodness sake, spill it. My cows will die. Maybe I was too stiff about this, but there’s somethin’ mighty funny goin’ on here. This water hole ain’t failed in twenty years.”

  “Let me handle him,” Ricker snarled. “I’m just achin’ to git my hands on him.”

  “Don’t ache too hard, or you’ll git your wish,” Marcy drawled, and he crawled through the fence. “All right, Kenyon, we’ll talk business,” Marcy said to the rancher. “You had me stuck yesterday with my tail in a crack. Now you got yours in one. I cut off your water to teach you a lesson. You’re a blamed old highbinder, and it’s high time you had some teeth pulled.

  “Nobody but me knows how that water’s cut off and where. If I don’t change it, nobody can. So listen to what I’m saying. I’m going to have all the water I need after this on my own place, but this here hole stays open. No fences.

  “This morning, when I went up to cut off your water, I saw some cow tracks. I’m missing a powerful lot of cows. I followed the tracks into a hidden draw and found three hundred of my cattle and about a hundred head of yours, all nicely corralled and ready to be herded across the border.

  “While I was looking over the hideout, I spied Ricker there. John Soley then came riding up with about thirty head of your cattle, and they run ’em in with the rest.”

  “You’re a liar!” Ricker burst out, his face tense, and he dropped into a crouch, his fingers spread.

  Marcy was unmoved. “No, I ain’t bluffing. You try to prove where you were about nine this morning. And don’t go trying to get me into a gunfight. I ain’t a-going to draw, and you don’t dare shoot me down in front of witnesses. But you take off those guns, and I’ll …”

  Ricker’s face was ugly. “You bet I’ll take ’em off ! I allus did want a crack at that purty face o’ yours.”

  He stripped off his guns and swung them to Soley in one movement. Then he rushed.

  A wicked right swing caught Marcy before he dropped his gun belt and got his hands up, and it knocked him reeling into the dirt.

  Ricker charged, his face livid, trying to kick Marcy with his boots, but Marcy rolled over and got on his feet. He lunged and swung a right that clipped Ricker on the temple. Then Marcy stabbed the rustler with a long left. They started to slug.

  Neither had any knowledge of science. Both were raw and tough and hard-bitten. Toe to toe, bloody and bitter, they slugged it out. Ricker, confident and the larger of the two men, rushed in swinging. One of his swings cut Marcy’s eye; another started blood gushing from Marcy’s nose. Ricker set himself and threw a hard right for Marcy’s chin, but the punch missed as Marcy swung one to the body that staggered Ricker.

  They came in again, and Marcy’s big fist pulped the rustler’s lips, smashing him back on his heels. Then Marcy followed it in, swinging with both hands. His breath came in great gasps, but his eyes were blazing. He charged in, following Ricker relentlessly.

  Suddenly, Marcy’s right caught the gunman and knocked him to his knees. Marcy stepped back and let him get up, and then knocked him sliding on his face in the sand. Ricker tried to get up, but he fell back, bloody and beaten.

  Swiftly, before the slow-thinking Soley realized what was happening, Marcy spun and grabbed one of his own guns and turned it on this rustler.

  “Drop ’em,” he snapped. “Unbuckle your belt, and step back.”

  Jingle Bob Kenyon leaned on his saddle horn, chewing his pipe stem thoughtfully.

  “What,” he drawled, “would you have done if he drawed his gun?”

  Marcy looked up, surprised. “Why, I’d have killed him, of course.” He glanced over at Sally and then looked back at Kenyon. “Before we get off the subject,” he said, “we finish our deal. I’ll turn your water back into this hole … I got it stopped up away back inside the mountain … but, as I said, the hole stays open to anybody. Also …” Marcy’s face colored a little. “I’m marrying Sally.”

  “You’re what?” Kenyon glared, and then jerked around to look at his daughter.

  Sally’s eyes were bright. “You heard him, Father,” she replied coolly. “I’m taking back with me those six steers he gave you so he can get them to water.”

  Marcy was looking at Kenyon when suddenly Marcy grinned.

  “I reckon,” he said, “you had your lesson. Sally and me have got a lot of talking to do.”

  Marcy swung aboard the moros, and he and Sally started off together.

  Jingle Bob Kenyon stared after them, grim humor in his eyes.

  “I wonder,” he said, “what he would have done if Ricker had drawed?”

  Old Joe Linger grinned and looked over at Kenyon from under his bushy brows. “Jest what he said. He’d’ve kilt him. That’s Quaker John McMarcy, the hombre that wiped out the Mullen gang single-handed. He jest don’t like to fight, that’s all.”

  “It sure does beat all,” Kenyon said thoughtfully. “The trouble a man has to go to git him a good son-in-law these days.”

  Keep Travelin’, Rider

  I

  When Tack Gentry sighted the weather-beaten buildings of the G Bar, he touched spurs to the buckskin, and the horse broke into a fast canter that carried the cowhand down the trail and around into the ranch yard. He swung down.

  “Hey!” he yelled happily, grinning. “Is that all the welcome I get?”

  The door pushed open, and a man stepped out on the worn porch. The man had a stubble of beard and a drooping mustache. His blue eyes were small and narrow.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “And what do you want?”

  “I’m Tack Gentry,” Tack said. “Where’s Uncle John?”

  “I don’t know you,” the man said, “and I never heard of no Uncle John. I reckon you got onto the wrong spread, youngster.”

  “Wrong spread?” Tack laughed. “Quit your funnin’! I helped build that house there, and built the corrals by my lonesome while Uncle John was sick. Where is everybody?”

  The man looked at him carefully and then lifted his eyes to a point beyond Tack. A voice spoke from behind the cowhand. “Reckon you been gone a while, ain’t you?”

  Gentry turned. The man behind him was short, stocky, and blond. He had a wide, flat face, a small broken nose, and cruel eyes.

  “Gone? I reckon, yes. I’ve been gone most of a year. Went north with a trail herd to Ellsworth, then took me a job as segundo on a herd movin’ to Wyoming.”

  Tack stared around, his eyes alert and curious. There was something wrong here, something very wrong. The neatness that had been typical of Uncle John Gentry was gone. The place looked run-down, the porch was untidy, the door hung loosely on its hinges, even the horses in the corral were different.

  “Where’s Uncle John?” Tack demanded again. “Quit stallin’!”

  The blond man smiled, his lips parting over broken teeth and a hard, cynical light coming into his eyes. “If you mean John Gentry, who used to live on this place, he’s gone. He drawed on the wrong man and got himself killed.”

  “What?” Tack’s stomach felt like he had been kicked. He stood there, staring. “He drew on somebody? Uncle John?” Tack shook his head. “That’s impossible. John Gentry was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence against anybody or anything in his life. He never even wore a gun, never owned one.”

  “I only know what they tell me,” the blond man said, “but we got work to do, and I reckon you better slope out of here. And,” he added grimly, “if you’re smart, you’ll keep right on goin’, clean out of the country!”

  “What do you mean?” Tack’s thoughts were in a turmoil, trying to accustom himself to this change, wondering what could have happened, what was behi
nd it.

  “I mean you’ll find things considerably changed around here. If you decide not to leave,” he added, “you might ride into Sunbonnet and look up Van Hardin or Dick Olney, and tell him I said to give you all you had comin’. Tell ’em Soderman sent you.”

  “Who’s Van Hardin?” Tack asked. The name was unfamiliar.

  “You been away, all right,” Soderman acknowledged, “or you’d know who Van Hardin is. He runs this country. He’s the ramrod, Hardin is. Olney’s sheriff.”

  * * * * *

  Tack Gentry rode away from his home ranch with his thoughts in confusion. Uncle John killed in a gunfight? Why, that was out of reason! The old man wouldn’t fight. He never had and never would. And this Dick Olney was sheriff ! What had become of Pete Liscomb? No election was due for another year, and Pete had been a good sheriff.

  There was one way to solve the problem and get the whole story, and that was to circle around and ride by the London Ranch. Bill could give him the whole story, and, besides, he wanted to see Betty. It had been a long time.

  The six miles to the headquarters of the London Ranch went by swiftly, yet as Tack rode, he scanned the grassy levels along the Maravillas. There were cattle enough, more than he had ever seen on the old G Bar, and all of them wearing the G Bar brand.

  He reined in sharply. What the …? Why, if Uncle John was dead, the ranch belonged to him! But if that was so, who was Soderman? And what were they doing on his ranch?

  Three men were loafing on the wide verandah of the London ranch house when Tack rode up. All their faces were unfamiliar. He glanced warily from one to the other.

  “Where’s Bill London?” he asked.

  “London?” The man in the wide brown hat shrugged. “Reckon he’s to home, over in Sunbonnet Pass. He ain’t never over here.”

  “This is his ranch, isn’t it?” Tack demanded.

  All three men seemed to tense. “His ranch?” The man in the brown hat shook his head. “Reckon you’re a stranger around here. This ranch belongs to Van Hardin. London ain’t got a ranch. Nothin’ but a few acres back against the creek over to Sunbonnet Pass. He and that girl of his live there. I reckon, though …” He grinned suddenly. “… She won’t be there much longer. Hear tell she’s goin’ to work in the Longhorn dance hall.”