She did not cry out, but she sat up quickly. It was enough to take a man’s breath.
“Lou Morgan!” she exclaimed in a startled whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll need a gun,” I said, “or better, a pair of guns. Your lovers are snarling at each other at the mission where you left me.”
Then I told her of the pitch slivers and the Yaqui. At first her eyes were hot with disbelief, but gradually changed to doubt. Then I told her of the ocotillo smoke that had brought Wetterling, and I laughed at my enemies.
She dressed swiftly while I watched out the window and saw dawn throw crimson arrows into the sky. Out in the cool halls of her house she took me and got a pair of pistols, ornamented, beautiful—two Russian. 44s, a pistol made by Smith & Wesson. A masterpiece!
With these belted on, plus a Winchester .76 and a belt of ammunition, I was ready.
With her own hands she quickly made breakfast. I drank black coffee, and ate eggs and ham, and looked upon her grace and beauty, and forgot. Until too late.
We heard them come. From the window we saw them. A half-dozen horsemen, one with a bandaged head, one with an arm in a sling, and three horses with empty saddles. But Wetterling and Borneman were riding together, side by side. My enemies had joined hands.
What to do?
It had to be quickly, and it had to be now. These men were conscienceless. They would kill Nana Maduro as soon as they would kill me, and if they forced from us the secret of the mission gold and silver, then we would die.
Into the gray of morning I stepped, and saw the blood of dawn on their faces. My rifle stood by the door, my two guns lay against my thighs.
“Good morning,” I said. “The thieves ride together.”
Wetterling’s eyes were ugly, but those of Borneman were only cold. I made up my mind then—Borneman must die. He was too cool, with his scholar’s face and his quiet voice, and his thin, cruel lips.
“Let’s be reasonable,” he said quietly. “You and Nana are alone here, except for two riders who are old men, and even they have gone to a line camp. Your Indian woman cook is as helpless as you. Tell us where the gold is and we’ll leave.”
“We’ll tell you nothing!” I said.
“He speaks for me,” Nana said. “I hope he always speaks for me. And to think I had always believed you—a famous scientist my grandfather called you—were his friend!”
Wetterling’s hatred was obvious. He still wanted Nana. “I’ll change you!” he said. “I’ll break you!”
“With the gold,” Borneman said, “you can buy fifty women.”
There was a silence then, while a quail called. Silence while dawn made a glory of the sky; and the dark pines fringed against the hills; and the air was cool and good.
Six men, and one of them Clevenger, whose partner I had killed. One of them a Yaqui, hating me. And a girl behind me whom they would not spare even if I died, and whom I knew would suffer the tortures of hell before she’d die, for she had courage, and would not tell.
That decided me. Numbers give courage, but they give it to the enemy, too. They gave it to me. Six men, and growing in me a terrible rage and a terrible fear. A rage against them, and a fear for her, for Nana Maduro whom I had loved since she was a child on her father’s ranch.
“You want gold and you’ve come prepared to buy it,” I said, “with your blood.” I took a step forward. “The price will be high, my friends, and Borneman, you will owe me, in a few minutes, the five thousand you offered me to kill Wetterling.”
Wetterling’s big blond head snapped around. “What?” he barked. “You paid him to kill me? Why, you—”
He struck at Borneman and my guns came up shooting. As he struck, his horse swung broadside, cutting off a rider whose gun came up fast. That gave me an instant I desperately needed. Three men were out of the picture, but I saw Clevenger’s eyes blazing and shot into them. His scarred head seemed to blast apart as he slid from his horse. Behind me the Winchester barked and another rider was knocked from the saddle, not dead, but hurt.
The Yaqui slammed his heels into his mount and charged me, and I stepped aside, grabbed his arm, and like a cat was in the saddle behind him with a left forearm like a bar of iron across his throat. The plunging horse swung wide and, with the Yaqui’s body for a shield, I shot again and again.
Wetterling’s horse went down and he was thrown free. Borneman hit the ground and rolled. I threw a quick shot at him and sand splashed his face and into his eyes. He screamed and clawed at his face, then the Yaqui twisted and I felt a knife blade rip my hide. With a great effort I tore him free of me and threw him to the ground. He started up, but the plunging, bucking horse was over him and his scream was drowned in the sound of the Winchester.
I hit the ground, guns empty. Borneman still pawed at his eyes. Clevenger was down and dead. Wetterling was getting to his feet. Another rider was sprawled dead or injured, and still another clutched a broken arm and swore.
Wetterling looked at me and shook himself, then started for me. Suddenly I felt the fires of hell in my blood and I swung for his chin.
It missed. He came in low and hard, grappling me about the hips, so instead of resisting, I went back quickly and the force of his tackle and my lack of resistance carried him past and over me.
On our feet, we walked toward each other. I feinted, he stepped in, and I hit him with a right that jarred him to his heels. He swung, and then we walked in, punching with both hands.
It was a shindig! A glorious shindig! He swung low and missed me, and I brought my knee into his face. His nose crushed to pulp and I hit him with both hands as he straightened back. He fell, and I walked close. As he started to get up I slugged him again.
My wounded leg was burning like fire, my breath was coming in gasps, my head felt dizzy. Somehow he got up. He hit me again and again, but then I got him by the throat and crotch and threw him to the ground. He started up and I hit him. Blood splashed from his broken nose and he screamed. I hit him again, and he blubbered.
Then I walked back to Nana. “If he moves,” I said, “shoot him. I’m going to sit down….”
IF YOU SHOULD, in the passing of years, come to the ranch on Cherry Creek, look for the N M brand. You’ll find us there. I’ve tequila in the cupboard and brandy on the shelf, but if you want women, you’ll have to bring your own, for Nana’s mine, and we’re watching the years together.
The gold we gave to the church, the silver to charity, and the jewels we kept for ourselves.
My hair is grizzled now, gray, and I’m heavier by the years, but Nana Maduro Morgan says I’m as good a man as I ever was.
And Nana should know.
The Nester and the Piute
He was ridin’ loose in the saddle when we first saw him, and he was wearin’ a gun, which was some unusual for the Springs these days. Out on the range where a man might have a runin with a locoed steer or maybe a rattler, most of the boys carried guns, but around town Sheriff Todd had sort of set up a rulin’ against it.
It was the second time I’d seen him, but he looked some different this mornin’, and it took me a minute or two to decide what it was made the difference, and then I decided it was partly the gun and partly that look in his eyes.
He reined in that yellow horse in front of Green’s and hooked one long leg around the saddle horn.
“Howdy.”
“Howdy.” Hatcher was the only one who answered, only the rest of us sort of looked up at him. He dug in his shirt pocket for the makin’s and started to build a smoke.
Nobody said anything, just sort of waitin’ to see what was on his mind. He had an old carbine in a saddle scabbard, and the scabbard wasn’t under his leg, but with the muzzle pointed down and the stock close to his hand. A man ridin’ thataway ain’t rightly figurin’ on usin’ a rope on no stock. That rifle would be in the way, but if he was figurin’ on needin’ a rifle right quick, it would be a plumb handy way to carry it.
When he had his
smoke built he lit it with his left hand, and I got a good glimpse of his eyes, kind of cold and gray, and them lookin’ us over.
Nobody here was friendly to him, yet nobody was unfriendly, neither. All of us had been around the Springs for years, all but him. He was the nester from Squaw Rock, an’ nesters aren’t right popular around cow range. However, the times was a changin’ an’ we all knowed it, so it wasn’t like it might have been a few years before, when the country was new.
“Seen a tall-like hombre on a black horse?”
He asked the question like maybe it was a formality that he wanted to get over with, and not like he expected an answer.
“What sort of man?”
IT WAS HATCHER who had started the talkin’, as if he was ridin’ point for the rest of us.
“Maybe two hundred pounds, sort of limp in his right leg, maybe. Rides him a black horse, long-gaited crittur, and he wears two guns, hangin’ low.”
“Where’d you see him?”
“Ain’t never seed him. I seen his sign.”
Yanell, who lived over nigh to Squaw Rock himself, looked up from under his hat brim and spat into the dust. What he was thinkin’ we was all thinkin’. If this nester read sign that well and trailed the Piute clean from Squaw Rock, he was no pilgrim.
That description fitted the Piute like a glove, and nobody amongst us had any love for the Piute. He’d been livin’ in the hills over toward White Hills for the last six years, ever since he come back to the country after his trouble. The Piute had done a bit of horse stealin’ and rustlin’ from time to time and we all knowed it, but none of us were right anxious to trail him down.
Not that we were afraid. Only, none of us had ever caught him in the act, so we just left it up to Sheriff Todd, who wanted it that way. This here nester seemed to have some ideas of his own.
“No,” Hatcher said, “I ain’t seen nobody like that. Not lately.”
The nester—his name was Bin Morley—nodded like he’d expected nothin’ else. “Reckon I’ll ride along,” he said. “Be seein’ you!”
He swung his leg back over the saddle and kicked his toe into a stirrup. The yellow horse started to walk like it was a signal for something, and we sat there watchin’ him fade out down toward the cottonwoods at the end of the town.
Hatcher bit off a hunk of chewing and rolled it in his jaws. “If he meets up with the Piute,” he said, “he’s askin’ for trouble.”
Yanell spat into the dust. “Reckon he’ll handle it,” he said dryly. “Somethin’ tells me the Piute rustled cows off the wrong hombre.”
“Wonder what Sheriff Todd’ll say?” Hatcher wanted to know.
“This here Morley, now,” Yanell said, “he sort of looks like a man who could do his own lawin’. He’s one of them hombres what ain’t felt the civilizin’ influences of Sheriff Todd’s star, nor he ain’t likely to!”
The nester’s yellow horse ambled casually out over the trail toward White Hills. From time to time Bin Morley paused to study the trail, but from here it was much easier. He knew the look of the big black’s track now, and from what was said later, I reckon the Piute wasn’t really expectin’ no trouble. Me, I was plumb curious. My pappy always did tell me my bump of curiosity was too big for my britches, but after a few minutes I got up off the porch and walked around to where my steeldust was standin’ three legged in the dust. I throwed a leg over him and trailed out after the nester.
Maybe I’d been listenin’ too much to the old-timers around tellin’ of cattle drives and Injun fightin’. You listen to the stories a mite and you get to honin’ to see some of them fracases yourself.
Now I knowed the Piute. Actually, he was only part Piute, and the rest was some brand of white, but whatever it was, the combination had resulted in pure-D poison. That was one reason everybody was plenty willin’ to accept Sheriff Todd’s orders to leave law enforcement to him. I will say, he done a good job. He done a good job until it come to the Piute.
It was understandable about the Piute. That Injun left no more trail than a snake goin’ over a flat rock, and no matter how much we suspected, nobody could ever get any evidence on him. Sheriff Todd had been on his trail a dozen times, but each time he lost it. I knew what Yanell was thinkin’ just as well as if it was me. Anybody who could trail the Piute plumb from Squaw Creek wasn’t likely to holler calf rope for any Injun rustler without smokin’ things up a mite.
ME, I WAS JUST CURIOUS enough and ornery enough to want to see what would happen when this nester cornered the Piute.
He was a big, sullen brute, the Piute was. Rumor had it he’d killed a half-dozen men, and certainly there was several that started out huntin’ him that never showed up until somebody found ’em dead, but there’d never been evidence to prove a thing. He could sling a gun, and when we had the turkey shoot around about Thanksgiving, he used to fetch his guns down, and nine times out of ten, he got himself a turkey—and he used a six-gun. You take a man that moves around over the hills like a ghost, Injun footin’ it over the rocks an’ through the brush, and who shoots like that, and you get an idea why nobody was just too worried about gettin’ him in a corner.
Six miles out I got a glimpse of the nester. The yellow horse was amblin’ along, takin’ it easy in a sort of loose-jointed trot that didn’t look like much but seemed to eat up the country right fast.
The day wore on and I kept to the brush, not knowing how Morley would take it if he knew I was trailin’ him. Then all of a sudden I saw him swing the yellow horse off the trail and drop to the ground. He was there for a minute, and ridin’ closer, I could see he was bendin’ over the body of a man. Then he swung back into the saddle and moseyed off down the trail.
When he went over the next rise I turned my horse down the hill. Even before I rode up, I knew who the dead man was. I could see his horse lying in the cactus off to one side, and only one man in that country rode a bay with a white splash on the shoulder. It was Sheriff Todd.
There was a sign around, but I didn’t need more than a glance at it to tell me what had happened. Sheriff Todd had run into the Piute unexpected-like and caught him flat-footed with stolen stock, the first time he had ever had that chance. Only from the look of it, Todd had been caught flat-footed himself. His gun was out, but unfired, and he had been shot twice in the stomach.
Lookin’ down at that body, I felt something change inside me. I knowed right then, no matter how the nester come out, I was goin’ to foller on my own hook. For Sheriff Todd was still alive when he hit the ground, and that Piute had bent over him, put a pistol to the side of his head, and blowed half his head off! There were powder burns around that hole in his temple where the bullet went in. It had been cold-blooded murder.
Swinging a leg over that gelding, I was startin’ off when I happened to think of a gun, and turned back and recovered the one Sheriff Todd had worn. I also got his saddle gun out of the scabbard and started off, trailin’ the nester.
From now on the sign was bad. The Piute knowed he was up against it now. He was takin’ time to blot his tracks, and if it hadn’t been for Morley, I’d never have trailed him half as far as I did.
We hadn’t gone more than a few miles farther before I saw something that turned me plumb cold inside. The Piute had turned off at the Big Joshua and was headin’ down the trail toward Rice Flats!
That scared me, because Rice Flats was where my girl lived down there in a cabin with her kid brother and her ma, and they had lived there alone ever since her dad fell asleep and tumbled off his spring wagon into the canyon. The Piute had been nosin’ around the flats long enough to scare Julie some, but I reckon it was the sheriff who had kept him away.
Now Sheriff Todd was gone, and the Piute knowed he was on the dodge from here on. He would know that killin’ Sheriff Todd was the last straw, and he’d have to get clean out of the country. Knowin’ that, he’d know he might’s well get hung for one thing as another.
AS MY GELDING WAS a right fast horse, I started him mov
in’ then. I jacked a shell into the chamber of the sheriff ’s carbine and I wasn’t thinkin’ much about the nester. Yet by the time I got to the cabin on the flats, I knowed I was too late.
My steeldust came into the yard at a dead run and I hit the dust and went for that house like a saddle tramp for a chuck wagon. I busted inside and took a quick look around. Ma Frank was lyin’ on the bed with a big gash in her scalp, but she was conscious.
“Don’t mind me!” she said. “Go after that Injun! He has taken out with Julie on her black!”
“What about you?” I asked, although goodness knows I was wantin’ nothin’ more than to be out and after Julie.
“’Brose’ll be back right soon. He rid over to Elmer’s after some side meat.”
’Brose was short for Ambrose, her fourteen-year-old boy, so knowin’ he’d be back, I swung a leg over that saddle and headed out for the hills. My steeldust knowed somethin’ was in the wind and he hustled his hocks for those hills like he was headin’ home from a trail drive.
The Piute had Julie and he was a killin’ man, a killin’ man who knowed he was up the crick without a paddle now, and if he was got alive he’d be rope meat for sure. No man ever bothered a woman or killed a man as well liked in that country as Sheriff Todd without ridin’ under a cottonwood limb. Me, I’m a plumb peaceable sort of hand, but when I seen the sheriff back there I got my dander up. Now that Piute had stole my girl, I was a wild man.
Ever see that country out toward the White Hills? God must have been cleanin’ up the last details of the job when He made that country, and just dumped a lot of the slag and wastin’s down in a lot of careless heaps. Ninety percent of that country stands on end, and what doesn’t stand on end is dryer than a salt desert and hotter than a bronc on a hot rock.
The Piute knowed every inch of it, and he was showin’ us all he knowed. We went down across a sunbaked flat where weird dust devils danced like crazy in a world where there was nothin’ but heat and dust and misery for man and beast. No cactus there, not even salt grass or yeso. Nothin’ growed there, and the little winds that stirred along the dusty levels made you think of snakes glidin’ along the ground.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 3