The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five

by Louis L'Amour

  CHAPTER IV

  HORSETHIEF VALLEY

  That was just the way I left, with that pack over my shoulder, slipping out to find Rowdy, who nudged me with his nose and stamped contentedly. But I waited there until she was on her horse and gone, and then I slid into the saddle and headed for the hills. When I got to where I’d left the pony, I tied the bridle reins up and turned him loose, knowing he’d find his way back to the T.

  Already I’d had an idea. Bill Keys had come from the Bradshaws, and that was where I was heading, right for Horsethief Valley. There had to be a tie-up there. Nor was I waiting until morning. Rowdy was rested and ready for the trail, and I took it, riding west across the mountains, skirting Latigo, and heading on west. On the third night I camped at Badger Spring, up a creek from the canyon of the Agua Fria, and after a quick breakfast in the morning, crossed the Bumblebee and Black Canyon and headed up the Dead Cow. Skirting the peak on a bench I cut down the mountainside into Horsethief Canyon.

  Western men knew the West, and it was no wonder that even as far east as Dimmit County, Texas, we knew about the horsethief trails that cut through the country from Robber’s Roost and the Hole in the Wall to Mexico. This place was only a way station, but from all I’d heard I knew some of the crowd that trailed stolen horses, and they were a hard bunch of men.

  Rowdy had a feeling for trouble. The big black pricked his ears toward the ramshackle cluster of cabins and corrals that lay on the flat among the mountains. Nobody needed to tell me that we were not watched all the way down that trail, and when Rowdy drew up in front of the combination saloon and store that was the headquarters at Horsethief, a half-dozen men idled on the steps.

  Across at the big barn a man sat on a bench with a Henry rifle across his knees, and another man whittled idly in front of a cabin even farther along.

  When I swung down I tied Rowdy to the rail and stepped up on the porch and dug out the makings. “Howdy,” I offered.

  A lean, hatchet-faced man, who looked the type to murder his mother-in-law, looked up. “Howdy.”

  Nobody said anything and when I’d built a smoke I offered the tobacco around, but nobody made a move to accept. A short, stocky rider with run-down heels on his boots squatted against the wall. He looked up at me, then nodded at Rowdy. “Quite a hoss. Looks like he could make miles.”

  “He made ’em to here.” I looked at Shorty again. “Want a drink? I’ll buy.”

  He got up with alacrity. “Never refused a drink!” he warned me. We pushed through the doors and bellied up to the bar. There was a smell of cured bacon, dry goods, and spices curiously intermingled. I glanced around the store, and sized up the fat man in the dirty shirt who bounced around to the bar side and made a casual swipe at the bar top with a rag.

  “What’ll it be, gents?”

  Shorty chuckled. “He says ‘what’ll it be’ ever’time, an’ he ain’t had nothing but Injun whiskey over this bar in a year!”

  Fatty was indignant. “Injun whiskey, my eye!” he exploded. “This here’s my own make, an’ mighty good rye likker if I do say so! Injun whiskey!” he snorted. “You’ve been drinkin’ out of horse tracks an’ buffalo wallers so long you don’t know a good drink when you get one!”

  He placed two glasses on the bar and a bottle. Shorty poured for them both, but Fatty reached for the bottle as he put it down. “Leave the bottle,” I told him, “we’ll want another.” I placed a gold piece on the bar, and Fatty picked it up so fast it looked like a wink of light.

  “Better not flash that coin around if you’ve got more of it,” Shorty warned. “Especially when Wolf Kettle is around. He’s the hombre you talked to out yonder, an’ while Davis is away, he’s ramroddin’ the outfit.”

  “Things look kind of slow,” I suggested.

  “They sure are!” Shorty’s disgust was evident. “Nothing doing at all! From what we hear there’s to be something big movin’ soon, but you can’t tell. Where you from?”

  “Down Sonora way. They call me the Papago Kid.”

  “Shorty Carver’s my handle.” He looked up at me. “Sonora, is it? Well, I sure figured I knew you.” He spoke softly all of a sudden. “I’d of sworn you were an hombre I saw sling a gun up to Dodge, one time. An hombre name of Wat Bell, from a Texas outfit.”

  “If you think I look like him,” I suggested, “forget it. He might not like the resemblance!”

  Shorty laughed. “Sure thing! You can be anybody you want with me. What’s on your mind? You wantin’ to join up?”

  “Not exactly. I’m huntin’ a couple of friends of mine. Bill Keys and an hombre named Taber.”

  Shorty Carver’s face hardened. “You won’t find ’em here, an’ if they are friends of yours, sure you’d better hunt another sidekick than me. That Taber an’ I didn’t get along.”

  I took a sidelong look at Shorty. “He’s been here then?”

  “Been here?” Shorty looked around at me. “He was here yesterday!”

  “What?”

  My question was so sharp that a half-dozen heads turned our way, and I lowered my voice. “Did you say—yesterday?”

  “Sure did! He rode in here about sunup, an’ him an’ Davis had a long confab. Then Davis takes off for Skull Valley, and where Taber went, I don’t know. He rode out of here, headin’ east.”

  For several minutes I didn’t say a word. If Hugh was out here, that meant the time for a showdown had come. Yet what had I found? Nothing to date that would help. That Hugh Taylor had been known to the outlaws of Horsethief Canyon was something, but not much.

  Right then I began to wonder for the first time about those absences from the ranch when Hugh was growing up. And that time he had returned with that silver-mounted saddle and a good bit of money. It was becoming more apparent where that money had come from. Had Uncle Tom Bell guessed? He was a sharp old man, and had not ridden the trails and plains for nothing. He could read sign wherever it was…and here was another thought: perhaps he had read the truth and guessed at what lay behind those absences and jumped Hugh about it.

  Had Hugh killed his uncle?

  There was enough of the old feeling for Hugh left to make me revolt at the idea, and yet it began to seem more and more possible. Uncle Tom and I had a violent quarrel and I left. What would be easier than to kill him and let me take the blame? Hugh’s surprise at my sudden return could have come from his consternation at what it might mean to him, and also he might have believed those rumors that I had been killed in Mexico.

  Certainly, he managed to get me out of the country without seeing anyone else.

  The swinging doors shoved wide and Kettle came in. He took a sidelong glance at me and walked up to the bar at my side and ordered a drink. I could smell trouble coming and could see there was something in Kettle’s craw.

  He got his drink and turned to me. “We don’t welcome strangers here!” he said. “State your business, an’ ride on out!”

  That turned me around, but I took my time. The man irritated me, and I didn’t feel like side-stepping trouble. I was tired of running and ready for a showdown, and ready to back it with lead. “Kettle,” I said clearly, “I didn’t come in here to see you. I never heard of you. You may run a big herd where you come from, but where I ride that herd looks like mighty small gathering!”

  His face darkened a little, and the yellow lights in his eyes were plainer. He half-turned before I spoke, but I gave it to him fast. “Don’t try to run any blazers on me, Kettle, because they won’t stick. If you make rough talk with me, it’s gun talk, and if you draw on me, I’ll kill you!”

  Shorty Carver had stepped wide of me and was standing there facing the room. What his play would be, I couldn’t know. He was a friend of only a few minutes, yet there had been some spark of comradeship there such as one often finds with men of the same ilk and the same background. He spoke before either of us could make a move. “He came to see Taber and Keys,” Shorty warned, “they sent for him!”

  “What?” Carver’s
statement obviously stopped Kettle. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I told him,” I said simply.

  He glared at me suspiciously. Something was gnawing at the man, and it might be something about me, but I had the feeling that he was naturally mean, a trouble hunter, a man with a burr under his saddle. “Where’d you know Taber?” he demanded.

  “In Texas,” I said calmly, “and I knew Bill Keys in Sonora.” That last was sheer hope, for whether Keys had ever been below the border, I didn’t know.

  “He’s the Papago Kid,” Carver said.

  “Never heard of him!” Kettle returned sharply.

  Another man spoke up, a lean-faced man with a drooping black mustache. “I have,” he said. “He’s the hombre that killed Albie Dick.”

  Kettle’s eyes sharpened, and I knew that meant something to this man. Albie Dick had been a dangerous man, and a killer with fifteen dead men on his trail when we tangled in Sonora.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” I said calmly. “I want to talk to Howie Taber!”

  “You’ll have to wait,” Kettle said grudgingly. “He ain’t here.”

  Somehow, the men relaxed. Shorty returned to the bar and took another drink. Under his breath, he warned, “You’d better watch yourself. Wolf was never braced like that before. He’ll be careful to make his play at the right time, but you’ve got trouble. The man’s mean as a rattler.”

  He downed his drink. “Also,” he added, “I’m beginning to remember things. That Wat Bell who downed that man in Abilene was ramrodding an XY herd…and that’s the ranch we’re going to use in Texas!”

  “What do you mean? Going to use?”

  He looked at me quickly, sharply. “So? You don’t know the inside on this, do you?” He was silent, tracing circles on the bar with the bottom of his glass. “Just what is between you and Taber, Kid?”

  That was a sticker, and I hesitated. Shorty had said earlier that he had no use for Taber. Right then I knew my time here was short, and a friend would be a help. Another enemy would be little worse. “Taber’s my cousin,” I said frankly, speaking low. “I think he killed my uncle and framed me with the murder while I was in Mexico. Furthermore, I think he sent me out here to lay low and planned to have me murdered when I arrived.”

  Quietly, I explained in as few words as possible and from time to time he nodded. “Glad you told me,” he said. “Also there’s no posters on Wat Bell out here, so you must be right on figuring that Lynch was out to get you.”

  “No posters on me? How do you know that?”

  He grinned, and he said softly, “Because I’m a Cattle Association detective, pardner, an’ I’m studyin’ into the biggest steal of horses an’ cattle ever organized!”

  Together we walked outside, and the story he told me answered a lot of questions. For several years a steady stream of stolen stock had been sent south over the old horsethief trail from the Hole in the Wall and Robber’s Roost to Mexico, and this valley was one of the important way stations. Lately, it had become apparent that even larger things were in the wind, for a man lately associated with the gang had suddenly become owner of a Panhandle ranch in Texas. There was a reported tie-up with the XY in central southern Texas, and large quantities of stock had begun to disappear and move south toward the border. It had begun to look as if mass stealings of stock had begun, moving south under cover and with large ranches as way stations.

  “Who’s behind it?” I asked him. “Any guesses on that?”

  “Uh-huh. There is.” Shorty Carver lit a smoke. “Howie Taber’s behind it. That cousin of yours has turned out to be the brains of the biggest stock-stealing ring in the country.”

  From the time he was sixteen until he was twenty, Hugh Taylor had been absent from the XY. He had gone again shortly after, and obviously, he had been gone at least once during the time I was in Mexico. It was then, no doubt, that he had begun to round up old cronies of his earlier days and build the ring that Carver now told me about.

  “Shorty,” I said, “can you slip out of here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then wire the sheriff in Dimmit County. See if I’m really wanted there for murder. Also, check on Tom Bell’s will, see who that XY spread was left to when he died. I’m having a talk with that cousin of mine!” I hesitated, thinking. “See you at the Tin Cup!”

  “Watch your step!” Shorty warned. “Hugh isn’t so bad, but you watch Bill Keys and Kettle!”

  CHAPTER V

  POWER OF THE PAPAGO KID

  After he was gone, I idled around, getting the lay of the land and thinking things over. It was well along in the afternoon, and night soon to come. By this time Hugh would know that I was still alive, that the plot to get me at the Tin Cup had failed. Evidently, the Tin Cup had been chosen because of its secluded position, and Lynch and Keys had been informed by the friend where I had stopped last that I was coming. Accordingly, they had evidently waited. It might be that I had been spotted and reported at several places since then, and they had come out to meet me, either at the Tin Cup or on the trail near there.

  Probably they had managed to get Ludlow away from his ranch, or had reason to believe he would be away. Then they had either killed him by mistake, or had killed him because he returned too soon. No doubt they had plans for the Tin Cup, anyway, as the ranch was ideal for such a venture as they planned.

  The jumpiness was in me now that presaged danger. I could sense it all around me, and I was restless. Every man here would be an enemy once it was realized who I was, and at any moment Bill Keys, Hugh Taylor, or Ross Lynch might ride in, and then the lid would blow off. I was surrounded by unfriendly guns, and to blast my way out would be a forlorn hope.

  Mingled with the realization of my danger was an acute longing to be back with Maggie Dolliver. No woman had ever affected me as she had, and despite the fact that there was an understanding between herself and Hugh, I had the feeling that she had felt for me as I had for her. That she had brought Rowdy to me and packed the food was enough to show that she believed in me.

  Time and again I walked down to the corral to talk to Rowdy. Time and again I noted exactly where my saddle was, and calculated every move it would take to resaddle him. That was something I wanted to do, but not until it was dark. To saddle him now would serve only as a warning of impending departure. I wanted them to believe that I was content to await the return of the man they knew as Howie Taber.

  Yet I could feel the suspicion, and my own restlessness contributed to it. Wolf watched me sharply, his yellowish eyes rarely leaving me. Other men seemed always around, but apparently Shorty Carver had managed to slip away. Since he was accepted here, his going and coming would occasion little remark.

  My thoughts kept reverting to Maggie and Win. At least Win was my friend, and it was something to have even one friend now. Once more I returned to the saloon and seated myself in a chair against the wall, careful to keep my guns clear. Evening was coming, and the sun had slipped down behind Wasson Peak and the ridges around it. All the bright glare of the Arizona sun was gone, and the desert and mountains had turned to soft pastel shades. A blue quail called out in the brush, and somewhere a burro yawned his lonely call into the cool air of twilight. A door slammed, and then I heard water splashing as someone dipped a bucket into the spring. There was a subdued murmur of voices, and the rattle of dishes. There was no hunger in me, only that poised alertness that kept my eyes moving and my every muscle and nerve aware and ready.

  Casually I arose to my feet and stretched. Then, as I had a dozen times before, I sauntered carelessly down to the corral. Wolf Kettle watched me, but I ignored him, stopping near the corrals to look around. Then I stepped over and put my hand on Rowdy’s neck and spoke to him. After a minute I crawled through the poles and was out of sight of Wolf or any of the others.

  My movements were swift and sure. Rowdy was never bridled or saddled faster in his life, and in what seemed scarcely no time, I was sauntering back into sight, cr
awling once more through the corral bar. I slowly rolled a smoke, struck a match, and then ambled placidly and nonchalantly back toward the store. “Brother,” I told myself, “if you get out of here with a whole skin, you’re lucky.”

  Back in my chair I listened to the casual talk, scarcely paying attention until suddenly two horses rounded into sight. They were walking, and they came so suddenly that it was a surprise to all of us. They came from the other side of the saloon and stopped at the end of the porch opposite me.

  Two men swung down. “Wolf? You got some grub ready?”

  It was Hugh Taylor!

  My heart pounding, I slowly lowered my hands to my knees, my eyes riveted on him.

  “You’d better have!” The second man was speaking, and it was Bill Keys. “I’m hungry as a grizzly!”

  It was late dusk, and no faces could be distinguished. Hugh came up on the porch, looking tall, strong, and familiar. Suddenly it was hard to think of him as being an outlaw, an enemy. I could only recall the times we went swimming together, the horses we swapped, and the times we played hooky from school and went hunting.

  He happened to turn his head then, and he looked right at me. He could have seen no more than a black figure of a man, seated there, but there must have been something familiar about it. “Who’s that?” His voice rang sharply.

  “It’s me, Hugh!” I said softly, “I figured it was about time we had a little talk.”

  At my voice Keys jerked like he’d been struck, and he turned. Wolf was facing me, too. The three of them ringed around me, from my extreme left to full front. On the right side, the edge of the porch, there was no one.

  “You…? Wat?” There was an edge of something in his voice, doubt, uncertainty or something. Maybe he was remembering, too. “We’ve nothing to talk about, nothing at all.”

  “What about Uncle Tom, Hugh? I didn’t kill him…. Did you?”

  His breath drew sharply. “We won’t talk about that, Wat. Not right now. You shouldn’t have come here, you know that.”