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

by Louis L'Amour

  It was a small but cold stream. Men and horses drank. Tom Galway sat down on a rotting tree trunk and scanned the area. Horses had been held here only a few hours before. Their tracks were in the mud and in the grass.

  “About two miles, isn’t it? The cabin sets out in the open.”

  “You got any ideas?”

  “I want to talk to Cassidy.”

  “You want to talk to him? Do you reckon he will set around and talk when he knows you’re huntin’ him?”

  Tom Galway was running this show and Piute Bill figured he knew what he was about, but talking to Cassidy at such a time? It didn’t make much sense. There had been a good deal of talk about Tom Galway since he had ridden into the Ruby Creek country, and a lot of wondering about him.

  “He’ll talk,” Galway said.

  Cassidy and Gorman were known men, both of them had been involved in shootings. With them would be at least six others, all used to fighting for whatever they got. Until now they had confined their raids to the big outfits where weeks might go by before a tally showed that stock was missing. Apparently Tom Galway’s stock had been too much of a temptation, and Galway was new in the Ruby Creek country. In the three or four years he had lived there he had kept out of trouble. He had been a hard worker, and obviously a top hand with horses.

  Walking to his horse Galway took two strips of rawhide from his saddlebags and tied his gun down to his thigh. Then he took out another gun belt and holster and, after strapping it on, tied it down also. It was the first time Piute had ever seen a man wear two guns, although he had heard of such things.

  Piute studied Galway. He was a lean, brown man, tanned by sun and wind. There was a scar over one eye and another along the jawbone. Piute turned his horse and started upstream. Galway cantered until beside him.

  “There’s timber along the stream,” he said, “fifty yards from the cabin. If they open fire we’ll take cover there.”

  Piute couldn’t quite make up his mind about Galway. He glanced at the younger man but saw no signs of nervousness or excitement. No more than if he was going after a bunch of cows.

  His mind turned to other things. Maybe Galway was right. Maybe he did need a woman. It was lonely there in the cabin in the creek. He was a healthy man, forty years old now, and he had a nice bunch of cattle and a few head of horses. The ranch was doing well, if they didn’t start rustling this side of the creek. He figured he could make a wife comfortable, and he wasn’t a cantankerous sort.

  The creek turned west and they entered the canyon. There was a narrow opening lined with aspen and a few spruce. The trees fell back and the two men cantered over the meadow toward the cabin. It was a squat, stone cabin with a corral almost directly behind it in which Galway could see his horses. Near the stone cabin were three other horses, ground-hitched.

  Pulling up about a dozen yards from the door, two men came out, followed by a third and a fourth. The first was Gorman, the second Robbins. The other two Galway did not know. The squat, bull-like figure of Digger Cassidy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Howdy,” Galway said casually. His eyes scanned their faces and settled on Gorman. “Where’s Digger?”

  “What d’ you want with him?” Robbins demanded belligerently.

  “Shut up, Robbins!” Gorman spoke sharply. “I’ll do the talking.”

  He looked at Galway, then at Piute Bill, whose paint had been stopped about ten feet behind and well to the right of Galway. “What do you want?”

  “I think Digger made a mistake.” Galway spoke gently. “He drove off twenty head of horses for me. Nice meadow here, but I’d rather have them close to home. Thought I’d just ride over and drive them back.”

  “You thought what?” Robbins’s face flushed red. “Just who—!”

  “Shut up!” Gorman said impatiently.

  There was something here he did not like, and Gorman had pursued a long outlaw career by being cautious. Only two men, and they looked like fighters. Piute Bill he knew about, and he was no man to trifle with.

  The other man, a stranger, seemed to be taking the lead, and his quiet, confident manner disturbed Gorman.

  “You’ll have to talk to Cassidy,” Gorman suggested. “He’s the boss.”

  “I know,” Galway replied, “but I can’t wait. You tell Cassidy that Tom Galway came for his horses. He’ll understand.”

  “You know Cassidy?”

  “I do. What’s more, Digger knows me. You tell him I came for my horses. If he wants me for anything, I’ll be at my cabin. Tell him to come whenever he’s ready…day or night.”

  He did not turn his head but spoke to Piute. “Kick those corral bars down, Bill. We can’t stay long.”

  Robbins had enough. He stepped forward. “You keep your hands off that corral,” he said, “and you, Galway! You get goin’ while you’re able!”

  Gorman was in a quandary. They were four to two. Still, this man said he knew Cassidy, and—

  Piute Bill had ignored Robbins. He rode to the corral and leaned toward the bars. Robbins, his face flushed with anger, turned back to Galway. “Stop him! Or I’ll kill you!”

  Tom Galway’s lips smiled, but his eyes did not. “Gorman, this kid’s askin’ for it.”

  Robbins’s hand streaked for his gun and Galway’s sorrel sidestepped suddenly at a touch of the spur. Galway fired…then again.

  Robbins, his gun half-drawn, stopped dead still, staring at Galway, his eyes blank and unseeing.

  Swearing viciously, Gorman went for his gun, trapped into a gun battle he had not wanted. Galway fired, knocking one man into the cabin wall where he fell, knocking the man beside him off balance.

  Piute Bill, half behind them, turned at the first shot and fired at Gorman, who went down, his fingers digging into the earth.

  The last man dropped his six-shooter as if it were red-hot and flattened against the wall. Galway looked at him over his gun.

  The horses were out of the corral and starting toward the bottleneck opening.

  Piute Bill’s Winchester was ready, and Galway looked at the last man. “You tell Digger Cassidy to stay on his own side of the creek. Tell him Galway said that, Galway of Tombstone!”

  He turned his horse away, watching the man. “And you tell Digger I didn’t start the shooting. It was that fool kid, Robbins.”

  The horses would head for their own corral, now that they were free, but they could always hurry them along a bit.

  They were almost out of the bottleneck when a sharp, feminine voice came from the aspens. “All right! Hold up there!”

  A buxom, determined-looking young woman of perhaps thirty stepped from the trees. She held a double-barreled shotgun as if she knew how to use it.

  Galway and Piute Bill drew up warily. A man with a shotgun was bad enough, but a woman—

  “What’s the trouble, ma’am?” Galway asked politely. “Can we do something for you?”

  “You killed my man back there, and if you think you’re gettin’ off scot-free, think again!”

  Piute Bill started to speak, then swallowed and looked helplessly at Galway.

  Lifting his hand slowly, Tom Galway removed his hat. “Now, I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am, but those men stole my horses and when I came after them they made the mistake of trying to shoot it out.”

  He noted no sign of tears. “Ma’am? Which one was it, Robbins?”

  “That puppy?” Contempt was in her tone. “He killed a few tender-feet and figured he was a tough man. My man was Ned Wavers.”

  “We’re almighty sorry, ma’am,” Galway said gently. “We came after our horses. We’d no intention of killing anybody.”

  “But you did!” There was no grief in her tone, just a hard matter-off-factness. “Ned wasn’t much,” she said, “but he made me a home, and when he wasn’t drunk he took care of me. Now I’ll be left here for Cassidy and that bullyin’ Tinto Bill.”

  Tom Galway smiled. “Why, ma’am, if you would rather not stay here, and if it is a home you’re loo
king for, we’ve got one for you!”

  She was, Tom decided, quite a pretty woman. Moreover, she looked neat, and clean. “Of course,” he added, “you’d have to be able to cook.”

  “There isn’t a better cook west of the Pecos,” she said flatly, “and I can make pies—”

  “Of course,” Galway said, smiling, “and we’ve got just the place for you! It’s a pretty little stone house by a creek, and a good, thoughtful man to go with it.”

  “Hey!” There was sheer panic in Piute’s eyes. “Look, you can’t—!”

  “A good, thoughtful man, ma’am, and a good provider. He’s one of the finest hunters around, always has meat for the table.”

  The shotgun lowered. “What’s going on here?” The woman was puzzled. “Somehow, I don’t under—”

  “Ma’am”—Tom Galway rested his palms, one atop the other, on the saddle horn—“ma’am, this gent with me is Piute Bill. He’s a known and respected man. Now he’s a mite on the shady side of forty, but steady. He can fork a bronc with any man, one of the best hunters around and he’s got him that stone cabin I spoke of.

  “It needs a woman’s touch, that’s all. The right woman. Needs a woman like you, a pretty woman who’s neat about the house and who will cook his chuck and keep the place revved up. I know he’d be speakin’ for himself, but he’s a shy man, not given to talking much.”

  “Tom! Listen! For God’s sake!” His voice trailed off helplessly as Galway continued.

  “He makes a little ’shine now and again, but I’ve never seen him drunk. Don’t drink no more than to be sociable. He owns seven hundred head of steers and a milk cow.”

  “Did you say a milk cow?” The woman looked thoughtful. “If he’s got a milk cow he’s a sight more of a plannin’ man than most. Mister, I reckon you’ve talked me into it!”

  “Mount up then!” Galway said cheerfully. “Mount up right there behind Piute and put your arms around him and hang on tight. By the time you get to his place on the creek I think he’ll be convinced!”

  Piute Bill, his eyes vicious and his face red, helped the young woman up behind him. She flashed a smile at Galway which suddenly faded.

  “Now see here! Ned wasn’t much and he beat me when he was drunk. I wasn’t sorry to lose him, him bein’ what he was, but we were all married up, fittin’ and proper!”

  “Of course, ma’am!” Galway looked shocked. “I’ll ride into Ten Mile as soon as I get you to the house. We will have a preacher out here before sundown. The barkeep was tellin’ me there was a preacher there now. I’ll get him. Meanwhile,” he added, “you better just bake a wedding cake. Somehow without a cake a wedding doesn’t seem real, does it now?”

  “Maybe the preacher won’t come?” Bill suggested hopefully.

  “He’ll come!” Galway said. “I’ll see to that!”

  “I just bet you will!” Piute said savagely.

  Whistling, Tom Galway turned his sorrel toward Ten Mile. “Horse,” he said, “I’d make a poor Cupid but sometimes there’s things a man just has to do. And besides, she had a scatter-gun.”

  When Galway rode into Ten Mile the only sign of life was around the Gold Camp Saloon. Galway tied his horse and pushed through the bat-wing doors. There were six men in the place. One sat alone at a table. He was a red-haired man, short and stocky, with a pious look.

  Galway stepped to the bar, noticing one of the men was Digger Cassidy, another was Tinto Bill.

  “Rye,” Galway ordered, and jerking a thumb toward the redhead he asked, “Is that the preacher?”

  “It is.” The bartender looked up curiously.

  “If you’ve got a horse,” he said to the preacher, “better get him saddled. I’ve got a wedding for you.”

  “A wedding? Of course, but—?”

  “Everything is going to be all legal and proper, this woman wants to marry this man, and by this time,” he chuckled, “he’ll be wanting to marry her. If she doesn’t have him convinced by now she doesn’t have the taking ways I think she has. She looked to me like a woman with a mind of her own.”

  “Who’s gettin’ married?” the bartender asked.

  “Piute Bill. He’s been looking for a wife for a long time.”

  “Who’s marryin’ him? There ain’t more’n three or four single women in the county!”

  “Piute Bill,” Galway replied carefully, “is marrying Mrs. Ned Wavers.”

  Tinto Bill choked on his drink. Digger Cassidy turned for the first time and looked right at Tom Galway. “Who?” he demanded, unbelievingly.

  “Mrs. Ned Wavers and Piute Bill,” Galway repeated. “They are getting married this evening. Soon as I can get the parson up there.”

  “But she’s married!” Tinto Bill said. “She’s got a husband, and any time she hasn’t, I guess I’d be first in line.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Cassidy said. The light was not good and Galway’s hat shaded his face somewhat. “Ned Wavers is—”

  “Dead,” Galway replied. “Mrs. Ned Wavers has been a widow for almost four hours.”

  Digger Cassidy spoke softly. “You say Ned Wavers is dead.”

  “That’s right, Digger. Seems some of your boys drove off some horses of mine last night, so I rode over to drive them back. Robbins made a fool play and Gorman and Wavers tried to back him up.”

  Silence filled the room. The preacher swallowed, and the sound was loud in the room.

  “Mrs. Wavers didn’t want to be left behind and as she kind of hit it off with Bill they decided to get married.”

  He was watching Cassidy, and a few feet to one side, Tinto Bill. “By the way, Cassidy, I told that other fellow, the one who’s alive, to suggest you keep to your side of the creek and I’d keep to mine. I went to a good deal of trouble to catch and train those horses, and I don’t want to lose them.”

  Neither Cassidy nor Tinto Bill had moved. Without turning his attention from them, Galway said, “Rev’rend, get your horse. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  The preacher vanished through the door.

  Cassidy spoke suddenly. “You can’t get away with this! I don’t care if you are Galway of Tombstone!”

  “Take it easy. If we shoot it out now, I’ll kill you. Maybe you’d get me, but that wouldn’t help you any. You’d be just as dead, and I never missed nobody at this range.

  “Why should you get killed over horses you didn’t have no business stealin’ and a woman who’s obviously been living a dog’s life?”

  “I didn’t steal your damn horses!” Cassidy said. “It was that fool Robbins!”

  “I can believe that,” Galway agreed. “In fact, I’d of bet money on it. So why should we shoot it out? It makes no sense. Now I’m going to leave. I’ve got to get that preacher back up on the mountain because that’s a decent woman yonder.”

  “Damn it, Galway!” Cassidy protested. “Why couldn’t you have come when I was to home? Once I knew those were your horses I’d have driven them back!”

  “All right,” Galway said, “I’ll take your word for it.” Deliberately he started to turn his back and when he did, Tinto Bill went for his gun.

  Galway palmed his gun and shot across the flat of his stomach. Tinto, his gun up, fired into the ceiling, took two slow steps and fell on his face, his gun skidding along the floor.

  Digger Cassidy stood very carefully near the bar, his hands in plain sight.

  “Looks to me, Digger,” Galway said, “like you’re fresh out of men. Why don’t you try Montana?”

  He turned abruptly and walked out.

  Digger Cassidy moved to the bar and took up the drink the bartender poured for him. “Damn him!” he said. “Damn him to hell, but he can sure handle a gun!”

  He downed his drink. “Bartender,” he said, “if you ever go on the road, steer clear of hotheaded kids who think they are tough!”

  Tom Galway rode up to the stone cabin with a saddle-sore preacher just after sundown. Piute Bill, in a clean shirt and a fresh shave, was se
ated by the fireplace with a newspaper; from the stove came a rattle of pans.

  The future Mrs. Piute Bill turned from the stove. “You boys light an’ set. It surely isn’t right to have a wedding without a cake!”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, ma’am!” Galway said. “Nobody likes good cooking more than me.”

  Piute Bill stared at Galway, the venom in his eyes fading under a glint of humor. “You durned catamount! You durned connivin’ Irish son-of-a…”

  “Ssh!” Tom Galway whispered. “There’s a preacher present!”

  That Triggernometry Tenderfoot

  It was shortly after daybreak when the stage from Cottonwood rolled to a stop before the wide veranda of the Ewing Ranch house. Jim Carey hauled back on the lines to stop the dusty, champing horses. Taking a turn around the brake handle, he climbed down from the seat.

  A grin twisted his lips under the brushy mustache as he went up the steps. He pulled open the door and thrust his head inside. “Hey, Frank!” he yelled. “Yuh t’ home?”

  “Sure thing!” A deep voice boomed in the hallway. “Come on back here, Jim!”

  Jim Carey hitched his six-shooter to a more comfortable position and strode back to the long room where Frank Ewing sat at the breakfast table.

  “I brung the new schoolma’am out,” he said slowly, his eyes gleaming with ironic humor as the heads of the cowhands came up, and their eyes brightened with interest.

  “Good thing!” Ewing bellowed. His softest tone could be heard over twenty acres. “The boys are rarin’ t’ see her! So’s Claire! I reckon we can bed her down with Claire so’s they can talk all they’re a mind to!”

  Jim Carey picked up the coffee cup Ma Ewing placed for him. “Don’t reckon yuh will, Frank,” he said. “Wouldn’t be quite fittin’.”

  “What?” Ewing rared back in his chair. “Yuh mean this here Boston female is so high an’ mighty she figgers she’s too good for my daughter? Why…!”

  “It ain’t thet,” Jim’s grin spread all over his red face, “on’y the new schoolma’am ain’t a she, she’s a he!”