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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Sure is!” Blade spat. “Killed a man up there two seasons ago. Mighty fine rider, too. Man by the name of Cy Drannan. Throwed him an’ then tromped him to death! Caught him in his teeth, flung him down, then lit in with all four feet! He’s a reg’lar devil!”

  “A big zebra dun?” Marty asked. Stoper recalled afterward that it had seemed less a question than a statement.

  “That’s right! An’ pure poison!”

  Marty Mahan was taken suddenly ill and could not ride. Yannell Stoper thought that one over, and curiously he watched both Marty and the dun horse. Mahan had come out to see the bronc riding, but he seemed pale and hollow-eyed. Yannell studied him shrewdly and decided that Mahan was sick all right, sick with fear. He was afraid, deathly afraid of the big dun!

  And Ghost Maker did his best to live up to his name. Bud Cameron asked for the horse when Marty could not ride. Bud was thrown, lasting scarcely two seconds on the hurricane deck of the squealing, sunfishing devil of a dun. He hit the ground in a heap and staggered to his feet. Amid the roar of the crowd, Mahan leaped up, screaming!

  His voice was lost in the thunder of shouting, lost to all but Stoper, who was watching the man he hated. He saw that scream was a scream of fear, but of warning, too! For the zebra dun, neck stretched and teeth bared, knocked the puncher sprawling and lit into him with both feet. They got the maddened animal away from the fallen man, but before nightfall the word was around. Bud Cameron would never ride again. He would never walk again. He was crippled for life.

  Big, tawny, lion-headed Yannell Stoper had no thought of Bud Cameron. The breaks of the game. What he did think about was Marty Mahan, for Marty was afraid. He was afraid of Ghost Maker. It was something to remember.

  At Prescott and Salinas, Mahan beat Stoper out for top money, but Ghost Maker was not around. He was piling riders down in Texas and killing his second man. Stoper made sure that Marty knew about that. After Marty won at Salinas, Yannell congratulated him.

  “Lucky for you it wasn’t the Ghost Maker,” Yannell said. Mahan’s head came up, his face gone pale. “I see he killed another man down in Texas!”

  Mahan, his face white, had walked away without speaking. Behind him, Yannell had smiled grimly. This was something to know.

  Yannell Stoper had his own ideas about men. A man who was afraid of anything was a man who was yellow. It was just in him, that was all. He did not know that a man who can face fists is often deathly afraid of a gun, and that a gunman may shrink from the cold steel of a knife. Or a man of utmost cowardice before some kinds of danger may face another kind with high courage. To Yannell Stoper a man who was yellow was yellow, and that was final. And to his satisfaction, Marty Mahan was yellow. It was a fact to be remembered and to be used.

  Yannell Stoper was big, rugged, and rough. In a lifetime of battling with hard broncs and harder men he had rarely known defeat, and never known fear. He had nothing but contempt for men who were afraid of anything, or who admitted doubt of themselves in any situation that demanded physical courage.

  Now, on this day at the Wind River Rodeo, Yannell Stoper was ready for his triumph. It was a triumph that would mean much to him, one he had carefully engineered. For it was at Stoper’s suggestion that the contest officials had secured the string of rough buckers of which the Ghost Maker was one.

  Here in Wind River, before the world of the rodeo and the eyes of Peg Graham he would expose the cowardice of Marty Mahan for all the world to see.

  “He’s here!” Yannell taunted. “Right here in Wind River, an’ if you duck ridin’ him here they’ll all know you’re yellow!”

  THEY WOULD, TOO! Even Marty had heard, or rather, overheard, the stories. He knew Stoper had started them himself, planting the seeds for the exposure, removing at once his rival for top rodeo honors and for Peg Graham.

  “They say Mahan will drop out rather than ride Ghost Maker,” a big rancher had said the evening before. “He’s scared of the hoss! Dropped out of a show down in Texas rather than tackle him!”

  “He’s a bad horse,” Red Carver admitted, “but you never make a good ride on an easy one!”

  Marty had turned away and walked back toward the hotel, sick and ashamed. For he was afraid. He had been afraid of Ghost Maker from the day he had first seen him on that lonely Nevada range where he had run wild. He had been afraid of him ever since he had seen the dun lift his head, nostrils flared, and then come mincing toward him, walking so quietly away from the herd.

  A wild horse that did not run. That should have warned him, and if it had not, the reaction of his own mount would have, for his horse began to quiver and edge away, blowing with fright. An old rancher had told Marty once, “Kill him the second he shows he’s a killer, or he’ll get you sure!”

  Real man-killers were rare, but there was in them something of a fiend, of a destroying demon that came on so gently, then charged with wide jaws and flaring eyes. And Ghost Maker was such a horse, a horse marked from birth with a vicious hatred of man or even of other horses, of anything that moved and was not of his own herd.

  Mahan had been seventeen at the time he first glimpsed the Ghost Maker. He had felt his horse shy, felt the quivering fright in the animal. Marty was younger then and he was curious. Above all, this wild horse seemed so tame, so friendly.

  Suddenly the dun had darted at them, frenzied with killing fury. In a flash he had struck down Mahan’s saddle horse. Marty had fallen free and the dun had rushed at him, but the effort of his gray to get off the ground distracted the maddened horse, and the stallion had wheeled and struck wickedly at the gray. Fighting like a very fiend incarnate, the zebra dun had attacked the gray horse and struck and slashed until the saddle horse was a bloody heap of dead flesh, hammered, chopped, and pounded until all life was gone and even the saddle was a ruined and useless thing.

  Marty, crouching weaponless between two boulders, watched that holocaust of butchery with horror-stricken eyes, unable to do anything to protect the old saddle horse he had ridden. And then, his killing fury unabated, the dun had come for him, lunging with slashing hoofs at the rocks, but unable because of the position in which he lay, to get at the boy.

  For three fear-haunted hours the killer dun had circled those rocks. Time and again he struggled to get at the boy lying in the crevice. In those hours had been born an overwhelming horror of the horse. A horror that was never forgotten. Long after the horses had gone, led away by the dun on some whim of the wild, Marty had lain there, cramped and still, fearing to move, fearing to show himself in the open where the stallion might again come upon him.

  Never again had he gone up on the range without a pistol, but never again had he gone to that section of the range. He had seen no more of the horse until that day in Calgary when the dun had shown itself under the saddle of Cy Drannan, Marty’s best friend. Marty had hurried to the rider and told him the horse was a killer.

  “So what?” Drannan shrugged. “I’ve heard of killers but never seen one! I always figured I’d like to top one off!”

  Cy Drannan, happy, friendly, a good companion and rider, died on the bloody tanbark that day under the lashing hoofs of a horse that was a cunning, hate-ridden devil.

  Now that horse was here, in this show, and he was to ride him. He, Marty Mahan.

  PEG GRAHAM WAS WAITING for him when the parade ended. Her eyes were bright.

  “Oh, Marty! Dad’s said that after the rodeo if you will buy that Willow Creek range he will give his consent!”

  Marty nodded soberly. “Does it have to be right away, honey?” he asked. “I mean, I…well, I may not make enough money in this show. Added to what I have, it will have to be a good fifteen hundred to swing that deal. I’d have to win four events to make it.”

  “Not if you win the bronc riding, Marty! They’ve upped the prize money and have offered a flat thousand dollars for top money! You can win it! You’ve already beaten both Red Carver and Yannell Stoper before!”

  He hesitated, his face flushing. “I
’m not riding broncs in this show, Peg,” he said slowly. “I’m going to go in for calf roping, bull riding, steer wrestling, and some other stuff, but not bronc riding.”

  Peg Graham’s face had turned a shade whiter, and her eyes widened. “Then…then it’s true what they say! You are afraid!”

  He looked at her, then glanced away, his heart miserable within him. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he said, “I guess I am afraid of that horse!”

  Peg Graham stared at him, “Marty, I’ll never marry a coward! I’ll never have it said that my man was afraid to ride a horse that other men would ride! Red Carver has asked for that horse! Yannell says—”

  “Yannell?” Marty looked at the girl. “You’ve been talking to him?”

  “Yes, I have!” she flashed. “At least, he’s not afraid of a horse!” She turned on her heel and walked swiftly away, every inch of her quivering with indignation.

  Mahan started to turn, then stopped. An old man with a drooping yellowed mustache leaned against the corral.

  “Tough, kid!” he said. “I didn’t aim to overhear, but couldn’t help it. You up to ride the Ghost Maker?”

  Marty nodded. “I’m not ridin’ him, though!” he said. “That horse is a devil! He shouldn’t be allowed in shows like this! That isn’t sport or skill…. It’s plain, unadulterated murder!”

  “Reckon I agree with you,” the old-timer said seriously. “It ain’t a bit smart to tackle a horse like that! I’ve seen him in action, an’ he’s a killer all through!”

  Marty nodded unhappily. “He’s from my home range in the Black Rock Desert country. He killed my ridin’ horse once, about five years ago.”

  “You Marty Mahan?” the old man inquired. “I’m Old John. Heard a lot about you. You don’t look like no coward.”

  Marty’s eyes flashed. “I’m not! But I am afraid of that horse! I’m not aimin’ to fool anybody about that!”

  “Takes a good man to admit he’s scared,” Old John commented thoughtfully. “Who rides him if you don’t?”

  “Carver an’ Stoper both want him. I wish they’d leave him out of this. He’s a killer and a devil. There’s something in that horse that ain’t right.”

  “Like some men I know,” John agreed. “There’s killers in all sorts of critters. Just got a streak of meanness an’ devil in ’em.” He hitched up his pants. “Well, luck to you, son. I’ll be amblin’.”

  Marty Mahan stared after the old man, his brow furrowed. He had never seen him around before.

  The memory of Peg’s face cut him like a knife. She believed him a coward…. Well, maybe he was! He walked over to Jeff Allen, chairman of the rodeo committee.

  “Jeff, I’m withdrawin’ from the bronc ridin’. I won’t ride that Ghost Maker.”

  Allen shifted his cigar in his jaws. “Heard you didn’t aim to. You say he’s a killer?”

  “He sure is.” Briefly, Marty related his own experiences with the horse. “Personally, I think you should take him out of the lists.”

  Jeff Allen shook his head. His cold blue eyes showed disdain. “Not a chance! Just because you’re afraid to tackle him don’t mean others won’t! Stoper has been around here, beggin’ for him!”

  MARTY SAW NOTHING of Peg Graham, nor of her father. Alone, he waited by the chutes for the calf roping, which was the first event in which he was entered. None of the rodeo hands stopped near him, nor did the contestants. Bitterly, his heart heavy in his chest, he watched them and watched the crowd. Once, over beyond the corral he saw Peg Graham. She was with Yannell Stoper.

  Stoper opened in the calf roping and made a quick chase, a clean catch, and a fast tie. It was good time. Red Carver and Bent Wells fell a little short. Marty Mahan’s black was a darting flash when the calf left the pens. He swept down his rope streaking like a thrown lance. The catch was perfect and he hit the ground almost as the rope tightened. He dropped his calf, made his tie, and straightened to his feet, his hands in the air.

  “Folks!” Roberts boomed. “That’s mighty fast time! Marty Mahan, internationally famous rodeo star, makes his tie in eleven and two-tenths seconds!”

  Three-tenths of a second better than Stoper: Marty turned, amid cheers, toward his black horse, and then somebody—and away down within him Marty was sure it was Stoper—yelled:

  “Where’s the Ghost Maker? Get Ghost Maker!”

  The crowd took it up, and as Marty cantered from the arena his ears rang with the taunting word.

  “Get Ghost Maker! Let him ride Ghost Maker! Yellow!”

  White-faced, he dropped to the ground. Old John looked up at him.

  “Hard to take, ain’t it, boy?”

  Mahan did not reply, but his face was pale and set. Yannell Stoper came around the corral, several riders with him.

  “There’s the hero! Wants milk-wagon horses!”

  Marty turned sharply. “That will be enough of that!” he snapped.

  Yannell halted, astonished. Then his eyes narrowed. “Why, you yeller-bellied, white-livered son—!”

  They started for each other, fists clenched. The loudspeaker boomed out.

  “Stoper! Ready for steer wrestling! Stoper! On your horse!”

  With a curse the big tawny-headed man turned. “Saved you from a beatin’!” he sneered. “You get the breaks!”

  “See me later, then!” Marty flashed back at him. “Anywhere! Any time!”

  Grimly, he walked away. Behind him he heard the roar of the crowd as Yannell went after his steer. For a minute Marty Mahan stood still, listening to that roar behind him. Soon he would be going out there, facing that crowd again, and they would taunt and boo again. It was no use…. Why bother? He might as well quit now!

  Then another thought came and he stopped in midstride. Run? Like the devil he would! He’d go back there and make them eat their taunts. Every word! He wheeled and walked back. When the time came for him to go out he went like a demon, flashing with speed. He took his steer down faster than ever before in his life, and as the loudspeaker boomed out his time, he swung into the saddle.

  Taunts and jeers burst from the stands, but this time instead of riding out, he rode over before the stands and sat there, his hat lifted in salute. As the yells, boos, and hisses swept the arena, he sat perfectly still, his face dead-white, his eyes bright, waiting for stillness. It came at last. Then he waved his hat once more and, turning his horse, walked him quietly from the arena, leaving dead silence behind him.

  Old John stood beside Peg Graham, who watched, her eyes wide. “That,” Old John commented dryly, “took sand!”

  She turned quickly to look at him. Then her eyes went back to the man riding from the arena. “I…guess it did,” she agreed hesitantly. Her brows puckered. “I don’t know you, do I?”

  Old John rolled his quid in his jaws. “No, ma’am, you don’t. Nor a real man when you see him!” He turned abruptly and walked off, leaving the girl’s face flushing with embarrassment and shame.

  As she turned away, she wondered. Had she wronged Marty Mahan? Was he a coward because he refused to ride that horse? If a man went into contest riding, he was not expected to be afraid of bad horses. He was expected to ride anything given him. Mostly the riders wanted bad horses because it gave them the best chance to make a good ride. Even if this horse was as bad as Mahan claimed, was it reason for refusing?

  In the last analysis, she guessed it was simply that she could not bear to have him called a coward, or to love a man who was yellow.

  Yannell Stoper won the bareback bronc riding in both the first and second go-rounds. Then he appeared in his usual exhibition of trick riding, and the first day of the rodeo ended with Stoper as the hero of the show despite his loss to Marty in the calf roping. His insistence on riding the horse that Mahan refused caught the crowd’s interest.

  Mahan was disconsolate. He walked the streets, feeling singularly out of place in his expensive trappings, and wishing he were miles away. Only the knowledge that if he left the show he would be branded a quitte
r, and through in the arena, kept him in town. That and the fascination exerted over him by the dun horse.

  As the evening drew on he heard more and more talk of the dun. Despite their willingness to call him a coward for refusing the horse, people were beginning to wonder if the animal were not a killer after all. At all these rumors Yannell scoffed.

  Marty Mahan was at supper when the café door slammed open and big, tawny-haired Stoper came in with Red Carver and Peg Graham. When the girl saw Marty sitting at the table alone she would have turned to leave, but Yannell would have none of it. They trooped in and, with several hangers-on, seated themselves at tables near Mahan’s. At the counter not far away sat Old John, calmly eating doughnuts and drinking coffee.

  “Sure I’ll ride him!” Stoper boomed loudly. “I’m not yellow! I’ll ride anything that wears hair!”

  Mahan looked up. Inside he was strangely still and at ease. It was only his mind that seemed suddenly white-hot, yet his eyes were clear and hard. He looked across at Yannell Stoper and their eyes met.

  “Finally got showed up, didn’t you?” Stoper sneered. “You was always a four-flusher!”

  “And you were always a loudmouth,” Marty said quietly.

  Stoper’s face flushed red. Then his blue-white eyes narrowed down and he began to smile. He pushed back from the table.

  “I always wanted to get my hands on you and in just about a minute I’ll slap all the coward to the surface!”

  He got up and started around the table. Carver called to him, and Peg Graham got up, her hand going to her mouth, eyes wide and frightened.

  “And in just about a half minute,” Marty said, sliding out of his chair, “you’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth!”

  Stoper walked in smiling and when he got to arm’s length, he swung. It was a powerful, wide-armed punch, but Mahan’s left shot straight from the shoulder to Stoper’s mouth, setting the big rider back on his heels. Then Marty crossed with a smashing right that dropped Yannell to his haunches.

  Mahan stepped back, his face calm. “If you want to ride that horse tomorrow,” he said, “you’d better save it!”