Draw Straight

by Louis L'Amour

  The red rocks of the mountains began to take on form and line, and I could see the raw cancers of washes that ate into the face of the plain, and the deep scars of canyons. Here and there lines of gray or green climbed the creases in the rock, evidence of underlying water or frequent rains among the high peaks.

  The trail curved north, skirting the mountains toward the sentinel pines. “Ride right to the Tin Cup Ranch,” Hugh Taylor had said, “and when you get there, ask for Bill Keys. He’ll be in charge, and he’ll fix you up until this blows over. I’m sure I can get you cleared in a short time.”

  The mountains cracked wide open on my left, and the trail turned up a slope between the pines. Blue gentians carpeted both sides of the road and crept back under the trees in a solid mass of almost sky blue. The trail was faint and apparently used very little, but there were tracks made by two riders, and I watched them curiously. The tracks were fresh, and they were headed into the Tin Cup canyon.

  You can bet I had my eyes open, for even so far away from anyone that knew me, there might be danger, and a man on the dodge learns to be careful.

  Then I heard a shot.

  It rapped out sharp and clear and final, bringing my head up with a jerk and my hand down to the stock of my Winchester. My rifle rode in a scabbard that canted back so that the stock almost touched my right thigh, and I could draw that rifle almost as fast as a man could draw a six-gun.

  Rowdy heard that shot, too, and Rowdy knew what shooting could mean. He skirted the rocks that partially barred the way into the Tin Cup, and I looked down into a little valley with a stone barn and stone house, two corrals and two riderless horses.

  Then I saw the men. The air was sharp and clear, and they were only a couple of hundred yards off. There were three of them, and one was lying on the ground. The man who stood over the body looked up and yelled at the other one near the corner of the house. “No, it ain’t him!” And then they both saw me.

  Panic must have hit them both, but one of them made a break for his horse while the other swung his hand down for his gun. Honest men don’t start shooting when a stranger rides up, so, as his six-gun lifted, my rifle cleared the boot. He fired, but I wasn’t worried. He was much too far away.

  He made a dive for his horse, and I held my fire. As he settled in the saddle, I squeezed off my shot. He jerked like he was hit, and I saw the gun fall from his hand into the rocks, and then they were taking out of there, but fast. They wanted no part of my shooting.

  Rowdy wasn’t gun-shy. With me in the saddle, he had no cause to be, after all we had been through down Mexico way. That was a part of my life I never talked about much, and even Hugh, who was my best friend, knew nothing about it. To him I was still the quiet kid he had seen grow up on our uncle’s ranch, the XY.

  Rowdy was in no shape for a chase, so I let the riders go and swung down beside the old man and felt of his pulse. That was mostly a matter of form. No man with that last bullet hole where he had it was going to be alive. The first shot was a bit high, and I could see there had been some interval, for the blood around the first wound was coagulated.

  A horse’s hoof clicked on stone, and I turned with my hands spread. You don’t pull anything fancy when four men are looking down rifles at you.

  “What did you kill him for?” The speaker was a squat, broad-chested man with a square, red face and gimlet eyes. He looked tough as a winter in the mountains, and at least two of the riders with him looked fit to side the devil on a ride through hell.

  “Don’t jump your fences, pardner,” I told him, pretty chilly, “I didn’t shoot this gent. When I rode into the Cup, two hombres were standing here, one right over him. They took a shot at me, then lit out, ridin’ up the valley as I came in.”

  “We heard shootin’,” the square-faced man replied. “He’s dead, and you’re here.”

  My eyes went over them, sizing them up. Nobody needed to burn any brands on this hide for me. Here I was on the dodge from one killing of which I wasn’t guilty, and now I’d run smack dab into another. Nobody had seen those other riders but me, so what happened now depended a whole lot on just who and what these men were.

  At first glance I could see there was only one man of the four who would give anybody a break. He was a young fellow with brown eyes and dark hair, and a careful look in his eyes. He looked smart and he looked honest, although a man can be fooled on both counts.

  The square-built man who had done the talking seemed to be the big gee. “Who are you, anyway?” he demanded. “What brings you here?”

  Something in the way he asked that question let me get downwind of an idea. “Why,” I decided to tell this hombre nothing, least of all that I was Wat Bell, “they call me the Papago Kid, and I’m from down Sonora way.

  “As for what brings me here, it was this black horse brought me, and the trail through the pines. A lot of trails have brought me a lot of places, and,” I added this with some meaning, “when I wanted to ride out, nobody stopped me.”

  His eyes sharpened down, and his lips thinned out, and I could see the old devil coming up in his eyes. This man was not one you could push far. He figured he was some salty, and he had no liking for being called up to the mark by any casual drifter. However, there was a funny little frown came into his eyes when I mentioned my name, and somehow the idea was there, full size and ready for branding, that he had expected another name. That feeling was so strong in me that it started me thinking about a lot of things.

  Sometimes a man rides trails and reads sign so long that he develops an instinct for things. There was the strong smell of trouble in my nostrils now, and for some reason I knew that I’d made a good bet when I told him I was the Papago Kid. The funny part of it was that if he could find a way to check back down the Sonora trail, he’d find out I hadn’t lied. A man sometimes can have two names that take separate trails, and if I was young Wat Bell in Dimmit County, Texas, I was also the Papago Kid down in Sonora.

  “Lynch,” the young fellow interrupted, “let’s get in out of this rain, and get the body in, too. I liked old Simon Ludlow, and I don’t like his body lying around like this.” Then he added. “We can talk just as well over some coffee, anyway.”

  Lynch hesitated, still not liking me and itching for gunplay. “All right,” he agreed, and turning to the other riders, a fat-faced man and a tall, stoop-shouldered rider, he added: “You two pick Ludlow’s body up and cart it out to the stable. Cover it with a blanket, and then come on in. Better put the horses in, too.” He looked at the tall man. “Don’t leave anything undone, Bill,” he added.

  When I heard the tall man called Bill, a faint suspicion stirred in me, but I didn’t look up. When I did, the fat man answered my question for me without any talking from me. “You take his feet, Keys, I’ll get his shoulders.”

  Lynch turned abruptly toward the door of the stone house, and I followed with the young fellow behind me. Inside, Lynch got out of his slicker, and I got a shock. He was wearing a sheriff ’s badge on his vest.

  “The coffee was your idea, Dolliver,” Lynch suggested. “Want to start it?”

  Dolliver nodded, and I knew he had seen my reaction to that badge and was curious about it. He turned toward the shelves and began taking things down as if he knew the place. In the meantime, I was trying to scout my trail and read the sign of this situation I’d run into.

  Hugh Taylor had told me to ride to the Tin Cup and ask for Bill Keys. Yet when I arrived here, there was a dead man on the ground who isn’t Bill Keys but is apparently the owner of the place. Meanwhile, Keys appears to be riding for the sheriff, and with what reason I had no idea.

  It was a neat little house, tidy as an old maid’s boudoir, and the smell of coffee that soon filled the room gave it a cozy, homelike feel. The fireplace was big enough, and all the cooking utensils were bright and clean. A blanket over a door curtained off an inner room.

 
Lynch dropped astride a chair and began to build a smoke. He had a bullethead covered with tight ringlets and a mustache that drooped in contrast. Slinging my hat on a hook, I hung up my own slicker and dropped into another chair. Lynch saw my two guns, and his face chilled a little. Something about me disturbed him, and I decided it was partly the guns—the fact that I was wearing them, not that he feared them.

  “You call yourself the Papago Kid?” Lynch’s question was sharp.

  My eyes held his, and I knew Sheriff Lynch and I were not going to be friends. He was distinctly on the prod, but he was digging for something, too. I was beginning to wonder if I didn’t know what it was he wanted.

  “I’ve been called that,” I said, “and I like the name. You can use it.”

  “Did you get a good look at those two riders who lit out of here? The two you said you saw?”

  “I did see them. No, the look I got wasn’t too good. One of them legged it for his bronc, and the other grabbed iron. Naturally, with a man drawing a gun on me, even at that distance, I wasn’t wasting any time looking him over.”

  “How many shots did you hear?”

  “One.”

  Dolliver turned around from the coffee. “I heard three.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed, “one shot apparently killed the old man, then I rounded into sight, and one of these hombres took a shot at me. I shot back.” I hitched my chair back a little. “However, as you no doubt saw, the old man was shot twice. I figure he was wounded some place away from the ranch, then trailed down by the killers who finished the job.”

  “What gives you that idea?” Lynch demanded.

  “If you noticed, Sheriff,” I said, “the rain hadn’t washed out the old man’s tracks. Those tracks came from toward the corrals, and even from where I stood, I could see the old man had fallen down twice on that little slope, and there were blood spots on his clothes.”

  It was obvious enough that the sheriff had seen nothing of the kind, and he studied me carefully. I was doing some thinking on my own hook. The reason the sheriff hadn’t seen those tracks was because all his attention had been centered on me.

  Dolliver, whose attitude I liked, brought the coffee up to the table, filled our cups. He was a clean cut youngster and no fool.

  The door opened then, and Bill Keys came in with his fat friend. They knocked the rain from their hats and shed their slickers, both of them looking me over while they were doing it. Dolliver filled cups for them, and they found chairs and sat down.

  It struck me as faintly curious that Sheriff Lynch was making no effort to trail the men I had mentioned, nor to see if there were tracks to back up my story. I wondered what Dolliver thought of that and was glad that he was with us. This was new country for me, and I was definitely in a bad spot, and unless the breaks came my way, I’d soon have the choice of shooting my way out or I’d find myself looking into my past through the leaves of a cottonwood with the loop end of a rope around my neck.

  “You ever been in this country before?” Lynch demanded.

  “Never. When I left my home in California, I crossed Arizona down close to Yuma and went into Mexico.”

  “How’d you happen to find this place? It ain’t the easiest valley to find.” He stared at me suspiciously, his eyes trying to pry behind my guileless eyes. I was wearing my most innocent face, carefully saved for just such emergencies.

  “Did you ever cross that desert behind here?” I asked. “The only spot of green a man can see is right here. Naturally, I headed for the pines. Figured there might be people where there was water.”

  That was simple enough even for him, and he mulled over it a little. “You said you came from California? You sound like a Texan to me.”

  “Hell,” I grinned cheerfully, “it’s no wonder! On the last spread I rode for down Mexico way, there were eight Texans. My folks spoke Spanish around home,” I lied, “so when I talked English with that Texas outfit, naturally I picked up their lingo.”

  The story was plausible enough, but Lynch didn’t like it. He didn’t get a chance to ask any more questions for a minute as I beat him to it. “What’s up, Sheriff ?” I asked. “Is this a posse? And if it is, why pick on me?”

  Lynch didn’t like that, and he didn’t like me. “Huntin’ a Texas outlaw supposed to be headed this way,” he said, grudgingly, “a murderer named Wat Bell. We got word he was headed west, so we’re cuttin’ all the trails.”

  “Bad weather to be riding,” I sympathized, “unless you’re on a red hot trail. Is this Bell a bad hombre? Will it take four of you?”

  Dolliver’s eyes were shrewd and smiling. “I’m not one of them,” he told me. “I have a little ranch just over the mountain from here, and joined these boys back in the pines when they headed this way. My ranch is the Tumbling T.”

  II

  Lynch ended his questions and devoted himself to his coffee. From the desultory conversation that followed while Lynch mulled things over, I learned that the dead man, old Simon Ludlow, had owned the Tin Cup and had no enemies that anybody knew. Win Dolliver was his nearest neighbor and liked the old man very much, as had his sister, Maggie Dolliver.

  The nearest town was Latigo, where Sheriff Ross Lynch had his office. The fat rider was Gene Bates, but nothing more was said about Wat Bell or what made the sheriff so sure he could find him that he started out on a rainy day. Knowing the uncertainties of travel in the West, and the liking of sheriffs for swivel chairs, I had a hunch that somebody had tipped off the sheriff. It was less than reasonable to suppose he would start out with two men in bad weather merely on the chance that the man he sought was coming to Arizona.

  Lynch looked up suddenly. “We’ll be ridin’ on into Latigo,” he said, “and I reckon you’d better come along.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  His blue eyes turned mean again. He didn’t like me even a little bit. “Not necessarily,” he said, “but we’ll be wantin’ to ask you questions, and we’ll be gettin’ answers.”

  “Look, my friend.” I leaned forward just a little, and having my hands on my hips as I did, the move put my gun butts practically in my palms. “I’m not planning to get stuck for something somebody else did. You rode down here and for some reason assumed I was the guilty man. Anyway, you’re all set on taking me in.

  “You made no effort, and I’ll leave it to Dolliver here to check my story. You’ve sat here while the rain washed or partly washed those tracks away. You made no effort to get after those killers.

  “You claim you’re hunting some killer named Wat Bell, yet when you got here, all the ambition seemed to leave you. Mister Sheriff, I’m not your man. I didn’t kill Simon Ludlow. I never saw him before. I have all the money I need and a better horse than any of you ride. Ludlow had nothing at all that I could want. The only shot I’ve fired was from my rifle, and Ludlow was shot with a pistol, and that last one was fairly close up.”

  Lynch looked ugly. “I know what I’m doin’!” he stated flatly. “I’ve got my reasons!”

  This looked like a good time to let them in on something. How anxious they were for gunplay, I didn’t know. I did know that I stood a much better chance right here than on the trail. I’d a sudden hunch that might be haywire as could be, but it might be correct. I’d a hunch Lynch had been told Wat Bell was coming right to the Tin Cup. I’d a further hunch that Wat Bell was not supposed to leave this ranch alive, and also that while Lynch now had doubts that I was Wat Bell, he was very apt to gun me down once I was on the road with the three of them.

  “All right,” I said. “You’ve got your reasons. Well, I have mine for not going into Latigo with you! I don’t wear two guns just for fun, and if those two shots had been fired at Ludlow by me, he’d never have come back to this ranch. If you want to call my bluff and see whether I savvy guns or not, just buy chips in my game, and you’ll see!”

  He was madd
er right then than a wildcat in a swarm of bees, but he wasn’t very happy about the spot he was in. Ross Lynch was not yellow, not by a jugful, but I knew there were several things about this setup he didn’t like. The presence of Win Dolliver, who I now knew had joined him by accident, was one of them. Another was the fact that I said I was the Papago Kid. That name meant nothing to him. But if, as I now believed, he had been tipped off that Wat Bell was coming to this ranch, then I had confused the issue enough so that he wasn’t sure who I was.

  Also, he was no fool. He had seen those two guns, and the guns had seen use. If we cut our dogs loose in this cabin, somebody was going to get hurt besides me. Nobody knew that better than Lynch.

  Dolliver smoothed things over. He was a smart hombre, that one. “There’s something to what he says, Ross. After all, why should we suspect him? It could just as easily have been me who found Ludlow. I was headed this way when I met you boys.

  “We should have looked for those tracks, too. I’m honest to say that I never thought of it.” He turned to me. “Did you hit the man you shot at?”

  “Burned him, I think. His horse was moving. I held my fire, but it was the best chance I had.” Right then I decided to say nothing about the gun the rider had dropped but to have a look the first chance I got. That gun might be a clue that would help me ferret out the answer to this deal.

  Lynch was getting ready to say something, and I was sure I wouldn’t like it. Dolliver interrupted. “Look, Ross,” he said quietly, “don’t blame the Kid here for being on the prod. You can’t blame him, riding into a deal like this. He certainly could have no reason to shoot Ludlow. Let him come on over to my place with me. I can use a hand for a few days, and when you want to see him, ride over. That will clear this situation up, and I think Papago will agree to work for me. I’ll pay him top hand’s wages.”