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

by Louis L'Amour

  Stoper came up with a lunge and dove for Marty, who stepped into a chair and tripped. Before he could regain his balance, Stoper was on him with a smashing volley of punches. Mahan staggered and Yannell was all over him, his face set in a mask of fury, his punches smashing and driving. Yet somehow Mahan weathered the storm, covered and got in close. Grabbing Yannell by the belt with one hand and a knee with the other, he upended the furious puncher and dropped him to the floor.

  Stoper came up with a growl of rage and Mahan smashed a left and right to the face. The left went to the mouth, to Stoper’s already bleeding lips, and showered him with blood. Marty stepped to the side and avoided a right, then countered with a wicked right to the wind. Yannell gasped and Mahan stabbed a left, then hooked hard to the face. Stoper bulled in close and the two men stood toe to toe amid the wreckage of smashed crockery and threw punches with both hands.

  Both men were big and both were powerful. Stoper weighed well over two hundred and Mahan scaled close to the one-ninety mark. Both were in excellent shape. Stoper roared in close and grabbed Marty. They went to the floor. Stabbing at Mahan’s eyes with his thumbs, Stoper missed and fell forward just as Marty smashed upward with his head. Blinded by pain, Stoper was thrown off, and then Marty lunged to his feet. Stoper got up, blinking away the tears the smash had brought to his eyes. Mahan measured him with a left, then hooked right and left to the body. Yannell shook his mane of tawny hair and swung a powerful, freckled fist. It missed, and Marty hit him again in the middle. The big rider stooped and Mahan slugged him twice more and the big man wilted and went to the floor.

  “Who’s yellow, Yannell?” Marty said then. He mopped the sweat from his brow with a quick motion of his hand and stepped back. “Get up if you want more. You can have it.”

  “I’ll get up!” Stoper gasped, and heaved himself erect.

  Mahan stared at the swaying, punch-drunk rider. Stoper’s eyes were glazed; blood dripped from his smashed lips and from a long cut over his eye. A blue mouse was rising under the other eye. His ear was bleeding. Marty stepped back and dropped his hands.

  “You’re no fighter,” he said dryly, “an’ too good a rider to beat to death!” He turned abruptly and walked out of the café.

  Yannell Stoper brushed a hand dazedly across his eyes and stared after him in drunken concentration, trying to make sense of a man who would walk away from a helpless enemy. He shook his big head and, turning, staggered blindly to a chair at a vacant table. He slumped into it and rested his head on his arms.

  THE SECOND DAY of the rodeo was a study in delay. Despite his beating of the night before, Yannell Stoper looked good. His face was raw and battered, but physically he seemed in good shape and he was fast and smooth. Marty Mahan, working to absolute silence from the crowd, won the finals in the calf tying by bettering his previous time by a tenth of a second. Stoper was second.

  Stoper won the steer wrestling, and took the finals in the bareback bucking contest.

  Marty came out on Old Seven-Seventy-Seven, a big and vicious Brahma bull who knew all the tricks. The bull weighed a shade more than a ton and had never had a stiff battle. He came out full of fight, bucking like a demon, swiveling his hips, hooking left and right with his short, blunted horns, fighting like mad to unseat the rider who clung to the rigging behind his hump. Marty was going and he was writing over both flanks, giving the big Brahma all the metal he could stand.

  Old Seven went into a wicked spin, then suddenly reversed. The crowd gasped, expecting the speed of it to unseat Mahan, but when the dust cleared, Marty was still up there, giving the bull a spur-whipping he would never forget. The whistle blew and Mahan unloaded with a dive. But Old Seven wasn’t through by a whole lot. He wheeled like a cat on a hot stove and came for Marty full tilt. Mahan swung around, and then the clowns dove in and one of them flicked the big bull across the nose and the maddened animal came around and went for the clown. Marty walked off the tanbark to the scattered cheers of the crowd.

  “Quiet today, Marty,” Carver said, hesitantly.

  Mahan looked up, a queer half-smile on his face. “They are waiting, Red. They want to see the Ghost Maker.”

  “Stoper’s riding him. I lost out.”

  “You’re lucky,” Mahan said dryly. “That’s no ordinary bad horse, Red. Take it from me.”

  Suddenly he saw Jeff Allen before him and he turned abruptly and walked toward him.

  “Jeff,” he said abruptly, “I want to be in the arena when Stoper rides Ghost Maker.”

  The older man hesitated, looking coldly at Mahan. “You had your chance to ride him,” he said briefly. “Now let Stoper do it.”

  “I aim to,” Mahan replied. “However, I don’t want to see him killed!”

  Allen jerked his head impatiently. “You leave that to Stoper. He ain’t yellow!”

  “Am I?” Marty asked quietly.

  For a moment the eyes of the two men held. The hard-bitten oldster was suddenly conscious that he was wearing a gun. It was only part of the rodeo trappings, but it was loaded, and so was the gun on Mahan’s hip. The days of gunfighting were past, and yet…Marty’s eyes met his, cold and bleak.

  “Why, I don’t reckon you are,” Jeff said suddenly. “It just seemed sort of funny, you backin’ out on that horse, that’s all!”

  Mahan looked at him with hard eyes. “The next time something seems funny to you, Jeff, you just laugh! Hear me? Don’t insinuate a man is yellow. Just laugh!” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Dick Graham looked after him thoughtfully, then said, “Jeff, I thought for a minute you were goin’ to fill that long-time vacant space up in Boot Hill!”

  Allen swallowed and mopped the sweat from his face. “Darned if I didn’t myself!” he said, relieved. “That hombre would have drawed iron!”

  “You’re not just a-woofin’!” Graham said dryly. “That boy may be a lot of things, but he isn’t yellow! Look what he did to Yannell last night!”

  YANNELL STOPER WALKED DOWN to chute 5. The Ghost Maker, a strapping big zebra dun, stood quietly waiting in the chute. He was saddled and bridled, and he made no fuss awaiting the saddle, having taken the bit calmly. Now he knew what was coming, and he waited, knowing his time was soon. Deep within his equine heart and mind something was twisted and hot, something with a slow fuse that was burning down, close to the dynamite within him.

  At one side of the arena, white-faced and ready, astride his black roping horse, sat Marty Mahan. Time and again eyes strayed to him wonderingly, and one pair of those eyes belonged to Peg Graham. Yannell, despite himself, was nervous. He climbed up on the chute, waved a gloved hand, and settled in the saddle. He felt the horse bunch his muscles, then relax.

  “All right,” Stoper said. Then he yelled, “Cut her loose!” And then the lid blew off.

  Ghost Maker left the chute with a lunge, sandwiched his head between his forelegs, and went to bucking like a horse gone mad. He was leaving the ground thirty inches at each jump and exploding with such force that blood gushed from Yannell’s mouth with his third jump.

  He buck-jumped wickedly in a tight circle, and then, when Yannell’s head was spinning like a top, the maddened horse began to swap ends with such speed that he was almost a blur. Caught up in the insane rhythm of the pounding hoofs, Yannell was betrayed by a sudden change as the horse sprang sideways. He left the saddle and hit the ground, jarred in every vertebra.

  Drunken with the pounding he had taken, he lunged to his feet, to see the horse charging him, eyes white and glaring, teeth bared. The crowd came off its seats in one long scream of horror as the maddened horse charged down on the dazed and helpless rider.

  In some blind half-awareness of danger, Yannell stumbled aside. At the instant, Mahan’s black horse swept down upon the maddened beast and Mahan’s rope darted for the killer’s head. Distracted, Ghost Maker jerked and the throw missed. Like an avenging demon he hurled himself at Marty’s black, ripping a gash in the black horse’s neck. The black wheeled,
and the crowd screamed in horror as they saw him stumble and go down.

  Out of the welter of dust and confusion somebody yelled, “Marty’s up! Marty’s on him!”

  In the nightmare of confusion as the black fell, Marty, cold with fear of the maddened horse, grabbed out wildly and got one hand on the saddle horn of Ghost Maker. With every ounce of strength he had, he scrambled for the saddle and made it!

  Out of the dust the screaming, raging horse lunged, bucking like mad, a new rider in the saddle. In some wild break of fortune, Mahan had landed with his feet in the stirrups, and now as Yannell crawled away, blood streaming from his nose, and the black threshed on the ground, Marty was up in the middle of the one horse on earth that he feared and hated.

  Ghost Maker, with a bag full of tricks born in his own hate-filled brain, began to circle-buck in the same vicious tight circle that had taken Stoper from the saddle. At the height of his gyrations he suddenly began to swap ends in a blur of speed. Mahan, frightened and angry, suddenly exploded into his own private fury and began to pour steel to the horse. Across the arena they went while riders stood riveted in amazement, with Marty Mahan writing hieroglyphics all over the killer’s flanks with both spurs.

  Pitching like a fiend, Ghost Maker switched to straightaway bucking mingled with snakelike contortions of his spine, tightening and uncoiling like a steel spring.

  Riders started cutting in from both sides, but Marty was furious now.

  “Stay away!” he roared. “I’ll ride him to a finish or kill him!”

  And then began such a duel between horse and man as the rodeo arena at Wind River had never seen. The horse was a bundle of hate-filled energy, but the rider atop him was remembering all those long years down from his lost riding horse on the desert, and he was determined to stay with the job he had shunned. Riders circled warily out of reach, but now long after any ten-second whistle would have blown, Marty was up on the hurricane deck of the killer and whipping him to a frazzle. The horse dropped from his bucking and began to trot placidly across the arena, and then suddenly he lunged like a shot from a cannon, straight for the wall of the stands.

  People screamed and sprang away as if afraid the horse might actually bound into the stands, but he wheeled and hurled his side against the board wall with force that would have crushed Marty’s leg instantly. Mahan, cool and alert now, kicked his foot free and jerked the leg out of the way the instant before the horse hit.

  As the animal bounded away, injured by its own mad dive, Mahan kicked his toe back into the stirrup and again began to feed steel to the tiring killer. But now the horse had had enough. Broken in spirit, he humped his back and refused to budge. For an instant Marty sat there, and then he dropped from the beaten horse to the ground and his legs almost gave way under him.

  He straightened, and the killer, in one last burst of spirit, lunged at him, jaws agape. Standing his ground, Marty smashed the horse three times across the nose with his hat, and the animal backed up, thoroughly cowed.

  Taking the bridle, Marty started back toward the chute, leading the beaten horse and trembling in every limb. Behind him, docile at last, walked Ghost Maker.

  The emotion-wracked crowd stared at this new spectacle, and then suddenly someone started to cheer, and they were still cheering and cheering when Marty Mahan stopped by the corral and passed the bridle of the horse to a rider. He turned and leaned against the corral, still trembling. For the first time he realized that his nose was bleeding and that the front of his white rodeo costume was red with spattered blood.

  Yannell Stoper, his own clothing bloody, walked up to him, hand out.

  “Marty,” he said sincerely, “I want to apologize. You sure ain’t yella, an’ you sure saved my bacon! An’ that was the greatest ride a man ever made!”

  “You sure weren’t afraid of that horse!” Dick Graham said. “Why, man…!”

  “Afraid of him?” Marty looked up grimly. “You’re durned right I was afraid of him! I was never so scared in my life! I didn’t get on that horse because I wanted to! It was the safest place there was! An’ once up there, I sure enough had to stay on or be killed! Scared? Mister, I was never so scared in my life!”

  Old John was standing nearby grinning at him. “Nice goin’, boy. An’ by the way, I heard you an’ the lady here”—he indicated Peg Graham—“were interested in my Willow Creek ranch outfit. If you still are, I would sell it mighty cheap, to the right couple!”

  Peg was looking at him, wide-eyed and pale. “I…I don’t know if…?” Her voice was doubtful.

  Marty straightened and slid an arm around her. “Sure thing, John! Looks like it would be a nice place to raise horses an’…”

  “Cattle?” Red Carver asked, grinning.

  “Kids!” Marty said. “Lots of kids! All rodeo riders!” He looked at Peg, grinning. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  Down the Pogonip Trail

  It was cold, bitter, bitter cold, and the wind from off the mountains cut through even the warmest clothes. Jeff Kurland’s clothes were not warm, for the long, dry summer had brought only disaster, and the few cattle he had been able to sell paid only for his groceries, leaving no margin for clothes.

  Now he seemed to be facing another winter without snow, and it was melting snow which watered the grasslands far below, the grasslands where his cattle grazed. He bowed his head into the wind and headed his horse for the timber. Broke as a drunken miner after ten days in town, he would have no chance now of marrying Jill Bates.

  The scarf tied around his head under his hat kept slipping down, but it did help to keep his forehead and the back of his neck warm. Without it, his brow would be cold as chilled iron, riding in this wind.

  The mustang broke into a canter for the last few yards to the trees. They would be shelter from the wind, at least.

  Now if he could just catch Ross Stiber! Five thousand dollars was a lot of money. Then he could fix up the cabin, get married, and maybe buy a few head of cattle to increase his small herd.

  Only a few hours ago Sheriff Tilson had told him Stiber was believed to be hiding out somewhere in the icy peaks and ridges that loomed above Kurland’s cabin. Tilson had warned him. The man was a killer.

  If Tilson was smart, he would not go up into those peaks after Stiber. Jeff knew those peaks from harsh experience, and nothing could last a winter up there. All Tilson had to do was wait and watch. Stiber would have to come out.

  The earth beneath his horse’s hoofs was iron-hard, the sky above a dull, forbidding gray. Where the small creeks flowed, the rocks were sheathed with ice. On the trail that wound through the spruce he was at least out of the wind, and it was a mere three miles to his cabin.

  Home! Four walls and a dirt floor, but a good fireplace and plenty of fuel. If a man was handy with an axe there was plenty of wood just from deadfalls, but food was scarce. What he would do if there were a heavy snowfall he could only guess.

  Even his visit to Jill had turned out badly. Not that she was anything but adorable, or lacked affection, but the house was so warm and pleasant that he shuddered to think of her comments if she were to see his own harsh cabin.

  He felt shy in the Bates’s house. His clothes were shabby, and his big hands were blue with cold. He could hardly tear himself away from the fire for the warm meal, and when Kurt Saveth had started to banter him about his rugged life he had frozen up inside, unable to find words with which to reply. He was cold, resentful, and unhappy. It was no wonder Jill’s parents preferred Saveth to him.

  The worst of it was it was Saveth, from whom he bought supplies. It went against the grain to ask his rival for credit. Kurt knew how little he bought, how badly off he must be, and how things must be up there on his ranch.

  The mustang’s pace quickened. Cold as the barn might be, the horse was ready for it after the forty miles it had traveled this day. Jeff rode the gray into the yard and stepped down from the saddle. Leading the animal inside, he stripped off the gear, put a
halter on him, and tied him to the manger. Then he forked down hay; at least he had plenty of that! He got out a blanket and covered the horse, buckling it in place. It was a light blanket, but at least it was some help against the cold. Fortunately, the barn was snug and secure from the raw wind. When Jeff Kurland built, he built well.

  His steps were loud on the hard ground as he crossed the frozen yard. Lifting the latch, he stepped inside and, dropping his sack of supplies, he started for the fireplace to light a fire.

  He stopped short. Neatly piled atop the ashes was a small cone of twigs and shreds of bark.

  “Don’t make no sudden moves.” The tone was harsh. “You just go ahead and light that fire. I was aimin’ to do just that when you came into sight.”

  Without turning, Jeff struck a match and lighted the prepared fire. As it blazed up he added heavier sticks.

  Of course, it would be Ross Stiber, and the man was a killer. Jeff half turned his head. “All right to get up now? I’m not armed.”

  “Get up an’ start fixin’ some grub. Hope you brought somethin’ with you. You surely ain’t fixed for winter.”

  Jeff Kurland got up and glanced across the room at the man sitting on the bunk. He was a big, raw-boned man, unshaved, and with a heavy jaw. His bleak gray eyes were taking in Jeff Kurland, his worn clothes and thin face.

  “I’m Stiber,” he said, “but it ain’t goin’ to do you one particle of good.”

  He came up behind Jeff and ran a hand over his pockets. He sounded surprised when he stepped back. “No gun, huh? I already looked the cabin over, so where is it?”

  “Ain’t got one.” Kurland was embarrassed.

  “Don’t get any ideas about that there reeward. I’m wide awake all the time, and I can shoot the buttons off your coat.”

  “I know that. I just haven’t got a gun.”

  Kurland went to work preparing the meal. He was hungry after his long ride, and wanted to eat. He also wanted time to think his way out of the situation he was in. How much of a situation, he was not sure. The outlaw settled himself back against the wall, watching his every move. Stiber seemed to want to talk.