Reilly's Luck

by Louis L'Amour

  Val Darrant rode away from Knight’s Ranch before daylight, curving around the mountains, over a spur, and down across the rolling country beyond. This was still Apache country, and he had had his fill of them as a boy in the bitter fight when they had attacked the stage on which he’d ridden with Will, so he kept off the skyline and was wary of the route he chose. He avoided possible ambushes, studied the ground for tracks, watched the flight of birds. All of these could be indications of the presence of people.

  At night he chose a hidden spot, built a small fire, and prepared his coffee and whatever he chose to eat. Then he put out his fire and rode on for several miles, masking his trail as much as possible.

  The country he was passing through after the first day or so was the area touched by the Lincoln County War, and many of the hard characters connected with that fight were still in the area. He stopped in Lincoln itself and tied up at the hitching rail in front of a small eating place.

  Inside there was a short bar and half a dozen tables. He sat down and a plate of beef stew was placed before him. In many such places there was no question of giving your order. You simply ate what was prepared and were glad to get it. The coffee was good.

  There were half a dozen people in the place, and two of them he recognized at once as toughs—or would-be toughs. One of them glanced several times at Val, whispered to the other, and then they both looked at him and laughed.

  Val ignored them. He had been in so many towns as a stranger, and he knew the pattern. Most people were friendly enough, but there were always a few who were trouble-hunters, choosing any stranger as fair game.

  “I figure he pulled his stakes,” one of the men was saying. “All the Mexicans liked him, so I figure he just pulled out for Mexico.”

  “Naw, he’s got him a girl up at Fort Summer. He’ll go thata-way. He’ll never leave the country ‘less she goes with him.”

  A hard-looking young man with reddish hair, turned to him, leaning his elbows on the bar. Val knew they were about to start something and he was prepared.

  “You, over there! Where d’ you think Billy the Kid will go?”

  Whatever he said they were prepared to make an issue of it. So he merely shrugged. “You can tell by looking at his horse’s nose.”

  “His horse’s nose? What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You just look at his horse’s nose. Whichever way it’s pointing, that’s the way he’s going.”

  The waitress giggled, and some of the men chuckled. Val merely looked innocent. The red-haired man’s face flushed. “You think you’re almighty clever, stranger. Well, maybe we’ll see how clever you are. What d’you do for a livin’?”

  “I’m an actor,” Val said.

  The man stared at him. The others in the room seemed to be paying no attention, but Val knew all of them were listening. He wanted to finish his meal in peace.

  “You don’t look like no actor to me,” the redhead declared. “Let’s see you act. Get up an’ show us.”

  Here it was … well, he intended to finish his meal. Val put down his fork. “Actually,” he said, “I’m a magician. I can make things disappear, but you boys will have to help me.”

  He turned to the waitress. “Have you two buckets? I’d like them full of water, please.”

  “You goin’ to make them disappear?”

  “If you boys will help me.” A Mexican boy was coming from the back door with two buckets of water. “And two brooms,” he added, “or a broom and a mop handle.”

  He took a broom and handed it to the redhead. “You take this broom and stand right here. And you,” he said to the other tough, “stand over here with this broom.”

  He got up on a chair with a bucket of water and held it against the ceiling, then guided the redhead’s broomstick to the exact middle of the bottom of the bucket. “Now hold it tight against the ceiling, tight as you can or it will fall.

  “You,” he said to the second man, “you hold this one.” He placed the second bucket against the ceiling, and the man’s broomstick was held against it.

  “Now as long as you boys hold those sticks tight, the buckets won’t fall. If they fall you’ll get mighty wet.”

  “Hurry up with this disappearin’ act,” the redhead said, “this is a tirin’ position.”

  Then coolly Val reached over and flipped their guns from their holsters and stepped back to his table.

  “What the—”

  “No,” Val said quietly, gesturing at them with a pistol, “you boys just hold those broomsticks tight unless you want to get wet … or shot.”

  Placing the pistols on the table beside his plate Val calmly returned to eating. He finished the stew, then asked for his coffee cup to be refilled.

  “Hey, what is this!” the redheaded man demanded. “Take this bucket off here!”

  “Be still,” Val said, “these gentlemen want to eat quietly … without any trouble from you.”

  He sat back, sipping his coffee and contemplating them with no expression on his face. The story had already got out, probably from the Mexican boy who had brought the water, and quite a crowd gathered outside. Some even came into the restaurant.

  The two would-be toughs stood in the middle of the room, the buckets of water above their heads. If they let go of the broom-handles the heavy buckets would fall, dowsing them with water and probably hitting them a rap on the skull.

  “Don’t be nervous, boys,” Val said. “You wanted to see something disappear. I’ve made my stew disappear, and three cups of coffee. And now”—he got up and placed a silver dollar on the table—“I am going to disappear.”

  He turned to the others in the room. “They’ll get pretty tired after a while, so when you boys get around to it, just take down the buckets for them, will you? … but only if you’re in the mood.”

  He stepped to the door. “Goodbye, gentlemen,” he said. “I regret leaving such good company, but you understand how it is.”

  He paused just long enough to shuck the cartridges from their guns, then he dropped the guns on the walk outside. Mounting up, he cantered out of town.

  The land lay wide before him, and overhead was the vast arch of the sky. This was what he had missed, the unbelievable distance wherever he looked, the marvelous sweep of rolling hills, the sudden depths of unexpected canyons, the cloud shadows on the desert or the grassland.

  Now, topping out on a rise, he could see for sixty or seventy miles across land that shimmered in the sun. He was alone with himself, and he heard only the hoof-falls of his horse, the occasional creak of the saddle, or jingle of a spur.

  As he rode, he thought how impossible it was to live in such a land without being aware of it at all times. Even within the narrowed scope of barroom, hotel lobby, bunkhouse, or campfire, much of the talk was of water holes, grass conditions, and Indians.

  The Indian was part of the terrain, and travel could not be planned without considering the Indian. Few of them had anything like a permanent home, and they might be expected anywhere. Waterholes were the essentials of all travel, important to wild game, and as important to the Indian as to the white man. Any approach to a waterhole must be undertaken with caution.

  In regard to waterholes Val had adopted the practice he had heard Tensleep mention … Tensleep, that curious gunman, half an outlaw, half a good citizen, an ignorant man in the way of books, but with a mind crowded with knowledge of which he was scarcely aware, it was so much a part of him and his way of living.

  Tensleep would never camp at a water hole, even in country safe from Indians.

  “Ain’t rightly fair,” he had told Val. “Other folks have to get water, too. And if you crowd up a water hole, what about the animals and the birds that have to drink? They’re goin’ to set out there dry-throated whilst you crowd the water. Get what you need, then make room.”

  He had learned, too, that it was never safe to drain a canteen until one had actually seen the water hole with water in it, for often
there was only cracked mud where water had once been. And he knew that the ancient Indian trails were the safest, for they followed the easy contours of the land, and always led from one water hole to another.

  Twice Val stopped at lonely ranches, exchanging news for meals, and listening to the gossip of the country. At the second ranch the rancher offered to sell him a handsome bay mare.

  The man leaned on the corral bars, extolling the animal, and Val asked, “What about a bill of sale?”

  “Why not?” The rancher grinned at him. “Write it up and I’ll sign it.”

  “But will it be good?”

  The rancher chewed his mustache, and then said, “Now, mister, I won’t lie to you. If you’re riding east I’d say that bill of sale was good; riding west I’d say it wasn’t.”

  “I think one horse is enough,” Val said, “but she’s a good mare.”

  He swam the Rio Grande, and pointed across country toward the Pecos, riding easy in the saddle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tascosa was born of a river crossing. It thrived on trail herds; and died, strangled with barbed wire. Its life was brief and bloody, and when it died there were left behind only a few crumbling adobes, the ghosts of dead gunmen slain in its streets, and Frenchy McCormick, the once beautiful girl who had promised never to leave her gambler husband, and who never did, even in death.

  But in the 1870’s and 80’s Tascosa was wild and rough and hard to curry below the knees. The cattle outfits and the rustlers were drifting in, and the ranchers who drove in the big herds wanted the toughest fighting hands they could find.

  Billy the Kid was a frequent visitor. The town had its tough ones, and its shady ladies, and some of these were as tough as the men to whom they catered.

  Valentine Darrant was headed for Tascosa. He told himself he was not hunting Thurston Pike—he was riding to his ranch, and Tascosa was the only town within a hundred miles or more in any direction. He had stopped one night in Fort Sumner, spending it in a bedroom turned over to him by Pete Maxwell. Pete and his father had been friends to Will Reilly, and Pete remembered Val.

  “Quiet around here now,” Pete told him. “Pat Garrett comes in hunting Billy the Kid, but the Kid won’t come back this way again. If my guess is right, he’s headed for Old Mexico. The Mexicans swear by that boy—he’s one American who has always treated them right.”

  “I know Billy,” Val said, “I knew him in Silver City when we were boys.”

  “He’s all right,” Pete said, “Just so’s you don’t push him. He don’t back up worth a damn.”

  “I saw him a while back,” Val commented. “He’s riding some rough trails.”

  Pete Maxwell knew better than to ask where he had seen the Kid, and he knew that Val would not have told him. They parted with a handshake after breakfast the next morning.

  Now Val was riding into Tascosa toward sunset. He was older, tougher, and stronger than when he had last seen Thurston Pike. He had been a boy then—he was a man now.

  Cottonwoods grew along the streets and back of the town. The Canadian River ran close by, and a creek ran right down Water Street

  . Val rode part way around the town to scout the approaches before actually riding in on the Dodge Trail, which took him in on Main Street

  . He turned left and rode to Mickey McCormick’s livery stable.

  After putting up his horse he walked to the corner and went into a saloon. It was near four o’clock and the saloon was nearly empty.

  A glance told him he knew nobody there, and he went to the bar, a tall young man in fringed shotgun chaps, boots with Mexican spurs, one tied-down gun, and a spare in his waistband under the edge of his coat. He wore a checkered black and white shirt, and a black hat. His coat was also black, but dusty now.

  “Is there a good place around to eat?” he asked, after ordering a beer.

  “Yonder,” the bartender pointed, “Scotty Wilson’s place. It’s likely he won’t be there himself, but the food’s good. Scotty always sets a good table … no matter whose beef it is.”

  Val smiled. “Those might be fighting words in some places.”

  “Not with Scotty. He’s the Justice of the Peace, and I guess he figures the easiest way to settle an argument over beef is for the court to take it. But he won’t charge the parties of the first part if they come in his restaurant to eat their beef.”

  “Sounds like a man I’d like,” Val said. After a moment he asked, “What’s going on around town? Any excitement?”

  “Here? Ain’t been a shooting in a week. Or a cutting.”

  Val idled at the bar. He had not wanted the drink, but he did want the talk, and the western saloon was always a clearing house for trail information—about water holes, Indian troubles, rustlers, and range conditions generally.

  A few men drifted in and ranged themselves along the bar. Val listened to the talk, aware of his own vague discontent. What was he doing here, anyway? Why didn’t he eat, go to bed early, and be ready for a hard ride the following day? But he did not move, and his soul-searching went on. What did he intend to do with his life? He could hang out a shingle in any of these western towns and gradually build a law practice. He was short of money, and desperately needed some means of income. The ranch had prospered, but the income had been put back into the place.

  The thought of Thurston Pike and Henry Sonnenberg lurked in the recesses of his mind, and he felt guilty. He should hunt them down, and do what the law could not do … what everyone would expect him to do. But he had no taste for killing.

  “Young feller?”

  “Yes?” It had been a moment before he realized one of the men was speaking to him.

  “Like to take a hand? We’re figurin’ on a little poker.”

  He was about to refuse, then said, “All right, but I’m not staying in. I’ve got some miles to ride tomorrow.”

  He was a fool, he knew. He hadn’t that much money in his pocket, and a man needed money to play well. Two hours later he checked out of the game, a winner by sixteen dollars.

  A small, slender man left the game at the same time. “Had supper?” he asked. “I’m going over to Scotty’s for a bite.”

  “All right.”

  They walked across the street, talking idly. “Win much?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither did I. About twenty dollars.”

  The steaks were good at Scotty’s. Val had not realized how hungry he was.

  Suddenly the other man said, “I think we know each other.”

  Val studied him. “Where?” he asked. “I’ve been west and I’ve been east.”

  “So have I, but I can’t place you. My name is Gates, if that helps. Egen Gates.”

  Val grinned at him. “You have a bullet scar on your arm, and another one somewhere about you. You got them from the Apaches one time, down Arizona way.”

  “And you?”

  “I was the kid who gave you my seat on the stage. I loaded rifles for you and the others. My name is Valentine Darrant.”

  “Darrant? Have you been to Colorado lately?”

  “No.”

  “Better go up there. They’ve been looking for you up at Empire … and some of the country around. I think they have news for you.”

  Val searched his face. “What does that mean?”

  “I was a miner … remember? Now I’m a mining man. The major difference is that I don’t collect wages, I pay them.” He grinned. “Although it isn’t always as easy as it sounds.” He was serious again. “Seems you invested some money up there, some years back. You’d better go see what happened to it.”

  Colorado … he had always liked Colorado. “I knew a pretty little girl up there once, when I was a kid,” he said, remembering. “She said she was an actress. Her name was Maude Kiskadden, and she was some relation to Jack Slade.”

  Gates smiled. “I know the story. She was no blood relation. Her father had been married to Slade’s widow after Slade was hung
by the Vigilantes … which never should have happened.”

  Gates called for more coffee. “You say you’ve been east. Did you ever hear of Maude Adams?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Maude Adams, who is about the best-known actress in the country right now, was your little Maude Kiskadden. Her mother used the stage name of Annie Adams.”

  They were still talking half an hour later when the door opened and Thurston Pike came in.

  Val Darrant looked at Pike and then said to Gates, “Mr. Gates, we’ve known each other quite a spell, but do you remember my uncle?” He had purposely raised his voice a little.

  “Your uncle? You mean Will Reilly? Of course I remember him.”

  Thurston Pike looked across the room at them. He was a tall, thin man with rounded shoulders and a lantern jaw. He had a grizzled beard, and looked dirty and unkempt.

  Val returned his look, a faint smile on his lips, and Pike lowered his eyes. He seemed uncertain what to do.

  “He was murdered, you know. Shot down from the dark by three men who were afraid to meet him face to face.”

  Val saw the slow red of anger creeping up Pike’s neck. He could think of him only as a killer for hire, undeserving of any consideration or pity.

  Gates was unaware of the impending drama. “What happened to them?” he asked.

  “One of them is dead,” Val replied, “and the others have not long to live.”

  Egan Gates was looking at him now. “What is it, Val? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t think anything is going to happen,” Val replied. “Thurston Pike wouldn’t think of shooting a man who is looking at him.”

  Gates glanced around quickly and got up abruptly. He shifted his chair to one side and sat down again. All eyes were on Pike.

  He stared at his plate, knife and fork clutched in his hands. Suddenly, with an oath, he put them down on the table, got up, and lurched to the door, knocking over a chair as he went.

  “You might have warned me,” Gates said.

  “I wasn’t expecting him, although I knew he was in Tascosa.”

  “Well, if he’s like you say, you’d best be careful. He’ll try to kill you now.” Egan Gates ordered fresh coffee. “I’ll say this for you. You’ve got nerve. You had nerve even as a kid.”