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

by Louis L'Amour

  Suddenly, with less than a second to go, the sorrel raced for the north wall and swung broadside in a wicked attempt to scrape his rider off. In one grasping breath, Rowdy saw that the horse was going to miss the wall by inches. He kept his foot in the stirrup, fighting the big horse’s head around. Devil May Care came around like the devil he was and, as the whistle sounded, went into a wicked burst of bucking that made anything in the past seem mild by comparison.

  CHAPTER VII

  UNLISTED EVENT

  Riders rushed from near the judges’ stand, and Rowdy kicked loose both feet and left the horse just as all four feet of the sorrel hit ground. Wheeling, teeth bared, Devil May Care sprang for his rider, but the horsemen wheeled alongside and snared the maddened bronc. With cheers ringing in his ears, Rowdy Horn walked slowly back across the arena. The crowd was still cheering when he walked up to chute 5.

  Wells grinned at him. “That horse must be on your side, son,” he said. “Goin’ for you like that sure impressed the crowd, and the judges, too! Showed he had plenty of fight!”

  “If he’s friendly”—Rowdy grinned—“deliver me from my friends!”

  Wells spat. “You’ve got a couple of mighty good friends, son. And neither of them are horses.”

  Luby was standing nearby. He turned, his elbows on the crossbar of the gate.

  “You were lucky,” he said. “Plain lucky.”

  Rowdy’s eyes darkened. “Maybe. If so, I hope my luck holds all day. And tomorrow.”

  “It won’t,” Luby said flatly. “Your luck’s played out! I’ve protested to the judges. I told them that allowin’ a killer to ride would ruin the name of the show.”

  “Killer?” Rowdy wheeled. “Why, you—”

  Bart Luby had been set for him, and too late Rowdy saw the punch coming. It was a smashing right that caught him on the side of the jaw. His feet flew up and he hit the dust flat on his back. Bart lunged for him. Rowdy rolled over and came up fast, butting Luby in the chest and staggering the bigger man. Bart set himself and rushed, smashing Horn back against the gate with a left and right, then following it up with a wicked hook to the head that made Rowdy’s knees wobble.

  Ducking a left, Horn tried to spring close, but Luby grabbed him and threw him into the dust. His face smeared with blood and dust, Rowdy came up, and through a fog of punch-drunkenness, he saw the big rancher coming in, on his face a sneer of triumph.

  The man’s reach was too long. Rowdy tried to go under a left and caught a smashing right uppercut on the mouth. Bart, his face livid with hatred, closed in, punching with both hands. Then Rowdy saw his chance. Luby drew his left back for a wide hook and Horn let go with a right. It beat the hook and caught Luby on the chin with the smash of a riveting hammer.

  The big man staggered, his face a study in astonishment, and then Rowdy closed in, brushed away a left, and smashed both hands to the body, whipping them in with wicked sidearm punches, left and right to the wind. Luby threw a smashing right, but Rowdy was watching that left. It cocked again, and he pulled the trigger on his right.

  Bart hit the dust on his shoulders. He rolled over, and Rowdy stood back, hands ready, waiting for him to get up. Blood dribbled from Rowdy’s mouth and there was a red welt on his cheekbone, but he felt fine.

  Luby was up with a lunge and caught Rowdy with two long swings, but Horn was inside of them, smashing a left to the body and a right to the head. Luby backed off, and suddenly, sensing victory, Rowdy Horn closed in. He chopped a left to the head, then a right, then another left. He smashed Luby with a straight left, and as Luby cocked a right, knocked him down.

  Bart Luby lay there in the dust, thoroughly whipped. Reaching down, Rowdy jerked him to his feet and shoved him back against the corral bars. He cocked his right hand to smash the bigger man in the face, then hesitated.

  Coolly, he stepped back.

  “Nothing doing, Bart,” he said calmly. “You started this, and you’ve had a beating comin’ for a long time, but I’m givin’ you no alibis. I want your eyes open because I’m goin’ to beat your socks off out there in the arena. When I win, I’ll win on the tanbark!”

  Deliberately, he turned his back and walked toward the stables.

  Bending over a bucket he bathed the dust and blood from his face and combed his hair. He scowled suddenly, remembering Neil Rice. What had become of the printer? In the hurry and confusion of being arrested, and then the rodeo, there had scarcely been time to think. Still, Rice might be back at the ranch by now.

  What did Ben Wells have up his sleeve? Who were the friends he had mentioned, and had they effected his release to compete in the rodeo? He was puzzled and doubtful, and recalling the finding of the body in his cabin, he realized how desperate his situation truly was. Aside from Vaho, he had no evidence of any kind. To the sheriff, as well as to people generally, his story of killing a man in a remote canyon and then finding his body in his own cabin would seem too utterly fantastic.

  Deliberately, he forced his thoughts away from that. First there were the contests. Each thing in its own time.

  The next event was bareback bronc riding, then came steer wrestling and bull riding. After that, the finals in calf roping. Four men would compete in the finals: Cass Webster from Prescott and Tony Sandoval from Buffalo, Wyoming, besides Bart Luby and himself.

  Bareback bronc riding was a specialty of Rowdy’s, and he took a fighting first, riding Catamount, a wicked devil of a horse. Luby took second, with Webster a close third. Luby won the steer wrestling, beating Rowdy by two-fifths of a second. Sandoval, the Wyoming rider, won the bull riding, and again Rowdy took a second, with Luby a third.

  Sweating and weary, he walked slowly back to the corrals at the day’s end. Tomorrow would decide it, but he was ahead of Luby so far….

  MORNING CAME, and the air was electric with expectancy. Even the other contestants eyed Rowdy thoughtfully as he strolled quietly down to the stables. Silverside nickered softly as he came up, and Rowdy Horn stopped to talk to the horse as it nuzzled him under his arm with a delicate nose.

  Cass Webster stopped nearby.

  “This killin’ stuff don’t go with me, boy,” he said quietly. “I don’t savvy this fuss, but you stack up A-one where I stand.” He ground his cigarette into the dust. “Luby washed himself out with me down to White Rock last year. He’s dirty, Horn. You keep your eyes open.”

  “Thanks,” said Rowdy.

  His attention had turned from the cowboy and was centered on Vaho Rainey, who was walking toward him, followed by the admiring glances of everyone.

  “We’ve visitors,” she said, “so be careful what you say.”

  His frown was puzzled. “I don’t get it,” he protested.

  “You will…. Look!”

  As she spoke, he turned his head. A small group of Indians was approaching. The first was old Cleetus, and the others were all men of his tribe, except one. That one, carefully concealed by a blanket, was Cochino!

  “Glad to see you here,” Rowdy told the Indians sincerely. “Very glad. If there’s anything I can do, tell me.”

  They looked at Silverside and talked in low tones.

  “They were here yesterday, too,” Vaho whispered. “They watched you ride.”

  Suddenly, Cochino spoke to the girl, swiftly, with gestures. Her eyes brightened and she turned quickly.

  “Oh, Rowdy! He says you can keep the horse! He is a present to you!”

  “Good glory!” Beside himself with excitement and delight, he could scarcely find words. “But what’ll I say? What can I give him?”

  “Nothing. That is—well, he asks only one thing.” Vaho was blushing furiously.

  “What is it? Whatever it is, I’ll do it!”

  “I—can’t tell you now. Later.”

  She quickly hurried away, and the old Indian chuckled. Cleetus smiled, showing broken teeth, but his eyes were grimly humorous.

  An even bigger crowd swelled the arena to overflowing, and men crowded every available spac
e. Pete Drago and his Demon Riders did their trick riding, their efforts augmented by the clowns, some of them rivaling Drago’s amazing riders for sheer ability and thrills. The chuck wagon race followed, and an exhibition with bullwhips.

  By the time the finals in the calf roping came around, Rowdy Horn was up on Silverside and ready. This time he was following Bart Luby. The piggin’ strings he kept in Silverside’s stall were checked, and he brought them out ready for the tie. Momentarily, he draped them around the saddle horn, and at a call from Wells, walked over to him.

  “Soon’s this event is over,” the sheriff said, “I want to see you.”

  Rowdy nodded grimly. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll look you up. It was mighty fine of you to give me this chance, Ben, and I’ll be ready to go back to jail.”

  DESPITE THAT, his heart was heavy as he walked back to his horse and swung into the saddle. Thoughtfully, he stared out at the arena. Eleven seconds, the time he had made yesterday, was fast time. It was fast enough to win in many shows, but could he equal it today?

  He picked up the piggin’ strings and kept one in his right hand. The other he put in his teeth. Suddenly his consciousness, directed at the arena where Bart Luby had just charged out after his calf, was jerked back to himself. His lips felt something strange with the rawhide piggin’ string. Jerking it from his teeth, he stared at it. Both strings had been carefully frayed with a file or some rough object. When drawn taut, to bind the calf ’s legs, they would snap like thread!

  “Time!” Weaver’s voice boomed out over the arena. “Bart Luby ties his calf in the record-breaking time for this show of ten and nine-tenths seconds!”

  Cheers swept the arena, and Rowdy Horn felt something go sick inside of him. He heard his name called, and he twisted in the saddle.

  “Cass!” he yelled. “Piggin’ strings! Quick!”

  Webster sprang as if stuck with a pin and thrust some piggin’ strings in Rowdy’s fingers. At the same instant, Rowdy tossed the frayed strings to the other contestant.

  “Look!” he yelped.

  He saw his calf leave the chute with a bound and take off down the arena like a bolt. Silverside saw it go and was in a dead run, heading down the arena. Rowdy’s rope whirled and shot out, and he left the saddle with a leap, swept the calf from its feet and down deftly, swiftly. His heart pounding and the dust swirling in his nostrils, he made his tie and sprang free, arm uplifted!

  Dead silence held the arena, and then, his voice wild with excitement, Weaver announced:

  “Folks! Rowdy Horn, ridin’ the great Silverside, wins the calf ropin’ with the record time of ten and eight-tenths seconds!”

  Cheers boomed across the arena, and Rowdy swung into the saddle and trotted his horse across to the judges’ stand. His great horse reared high, and Rowdy’s hat swung wide, acknowledging the cheers. Then, to the martial music of the band, Silverside dance-stepped across the arena to accompanying cheers. Then Rowdy turned the horse and rode him back to the chutes.

  The memory of those frayed piggin’ strings was in his mind. There was only one time it could have been done, hastily but deftly, and obviously planned for, and that had been while he was exchanging his few words with the sheriff.

  Bart Luby had been sitting his horse, awaiting his signal, right beside Silverside!

  Swift work, but it could have been done, for several minutes must have elapsed before Rowdy had returned to his horse. Only the sudden feel of the frayed place by his lips had saved him, for a snapped piggin’ string would have meant too much loss of time.

  He swung down and approached the tight little circle of men—Sheriff Ben Wells, Cass Webster, Tony Sandoval, Neil Rice, and others. And in the center of them, pale and defiant, his eyes hard with hatred, was Bart Luby.

  Rowdy shoved through the crowd. “All right, blast you!” he flared. “Now you can have that beatin’!”

  “Hold it, Horn!” Wells said sternly. “Step back now! This is in my hands!”

  “All this talk is foolishness!” Luby declared harshly. “Why would I do a thing like that? I don’t care what Webster says, I never touched those piggin’ strings!”

  “Same thing you done at White Rock!” Webster said flatly. “And you say I’m a liar, Bart Luby, and you’ve me to whip!”

  Wells turned on him, scowling.

  “Will you shut up!” he said testily. “That piggin’ string deal was bad enough, but I’m arrestin’ Luby for fraud, and for rustlin’.”

  “What?” Luby’s face paled. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “What I said,” Ben Wells replied calmly. “This here hombre”—he gestured to Rice—“found Tom Slater’s true will hid in a cabinet in the old Slash Bar ranch house. He also found a document there that had its seal removed. Meantime, I’d sent a couple of deputies with a posse back to hunt for that valley Rowdy told us about. They hit the jackpot and rounded up Jack Rollick and two of his boys. Rollick confessed that he helped you tote that body over to the Slash Bar, Luby, to dump it on Horn. Besides that, when I jugged Horn, I searched him, and found what he had plumb forgot—Rollick’s tally book showin’ he rustled cows he’d sold through you and to you, even tellin’ about the percentage he took off whenever you tipped him to good steals.”

  “It’s all a pack of lies,” Luby said, but his protest lacked emphasis.

  “A search warrant got us into your house while you was down here,” Wells went on remorselessly, “and we scared up that fake deed. Rice, here, he showed me how that seal was removed from one paper and used on the other. He also showed how the will you had was actually an old letter to you from Slater, but changed so to make it a will. You can tell by the creases where words were changed and added on.”

  Rowdy Horn looked up and saw Jenny Welman standing on the edge of the crowd, her lips parted. She stared at Luby, horrified, then at Rowdy. Abruptly, she turned and fled.

  Horn had no wish to hear more. He was cleared now. Rice caught his eye.

  “Boss,” he said, “I did what I thought was right. You were gone, so I acted on my own.”

  “Fine,” Rowdy said, “I’m glad you did.” His eyes were straying, searching for the face he wanted. “You’ve got your job with me as long as you want it.”

  Vaho Rainey walked out from the stables, leading her palomino. Rowdy walked past Rice and stopped her. For an instant, their eyes held.

  “Honey,” he said then, “how many sheep would I have to swap Cleetus for you?”

  She laughed. “He’d probably give you sheep to be rid of me. He loves me, I know, but now that I’m a young lady, I think I worry him.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t want to marry a cowman, even one with a ranch,” he suggested.

  “Why, Rowdy!” She laughed suddenly, her eyes dancing. “We’ve been engaged, or practically engaged, ever since we got Silverside!”

  “What?” He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  She blushed, but her eyes were happy. “Why, I told Cochino that it was the custom of your people for the bride to bring a pony to her husband, and only the finest pony would do. That was what he was saying by the stables this morning. He said all he wanted in return for the horse, which he had actually given me to give you, anyway, was for you to take good care of your squaw!”

  He chuckled. “Why, I reckon that’s a good deal,” he said whimsically. “The cheapest durned horse I ever got!”

  The Ghost Maker

  Marty Mahan, tall in the saddle of his black gelding, rode in the Grand Entry Parade of the Wind River Annual Rodeo, but beside him rode fear. Tall and splendidly built, clad in silver and white, Mahan was a fine-looking rider, and the crowd, which looked down to applaud, and to whose applause he responded with a wave of his Stetson, knew he was one of the greatest riders the West had seen.

  For two years he had won top honors in the Wind River show. At a dozen other rodeos he was considered, by performers as well as spectators, one of the finest all-around cowboys riding the tanbark. Yet today fear
rode with him, and hatred and contempt rode beside him. The fear was in the memory of a day and a horse; the hatred was in the person of big Yannell Stoper, the hard-faced roughneck of the contests, who rode beside him in the parade.

  “How does it feel, Pretty Boy?” Yannell sneered. “How does it feel to know you’re through? You know what they’ll say when they find out? You’re yellow! Yellow, Mahan! Just as yellow as they come! That Ghost Maker will show ’em today! You mark my words!”

  Mahan said nothing, his face stiff and white. There was too much truth in what Stoper was saying. He was afraid—he had always been afraid of Ghost Maker.

  YANNELL STOPER HAD REASON to know. Three times hand running, three years before, Marty Mahan had beaten Yannell out for top money, and Stoper was not a man who took losing lightly. His animosity for Mahan developed, but he had detected no flaw in the other rider until that day at Twin Forks.

  It was a small rodeo, just a fill-in for riders of the stamp of Stoper and Mahan, and neither of them had figured on much trouble. Marty had won the calf roping without even extending himself, and Stoper had taken the steer wrestling easily. Both riders had allowed the lesser names to come in for money in other events, pointing themselves at the bronc riding.

  Marty Mahan had been his usual devil-may-care self until the names of the riders and their mounts were posted. Marty Mahan was posted as riding Ghost Maker.

  “What a name!” he said, grinning. “I wonder who thinks them up?”

  Red Blade shrugged. “This one deserves his name!” he said wryly. “You should do top money if you top off that horse! He earned his name up in Calgary!”

  “Calgary?” Yannell noticed a subtle change in Mahan’s voice, and had turned to watch him. “This Ghost Maker from up there?”