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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Hear what I said?” Gerlach demanded.

  Ryan looked up, studying the bigger man calmly. “Yes,” he said, “and the remark didn’t require an answer.”

  Gerlach started to speak, then devoted himself to his food.

  “That bay horse yours?” Fred Hitch asked suddenly.

  Ryan nodded…they had seen the horse, then? That was one trouble with Big Red, he was a blood bay, and he stood out. It would have been better to have a dun or a buckskin…even a black.

  “It’s mine,” he said.

  Yet their curiosity and Fred’s uneasiness puzzled him. Why should Fred be bothered by him?

  “Don’t take to strangers around here,” Gerlach said suddenly. “You move on.”

  Ryan said nothing, although he felt something inside of him grow poised and waiting. No trouble, Matt, he warned himself, not here…

  “Hear me?” Gerlach’s voice rose. “We’ve missed some cows.”

  Kitty had come to the door, and her father was behind her. Hanna was a peace-loving man, but a stern one.

  “I heard you,” Ryan replied quietly, “an’ if you’ve missed cows, ride toward Thumb Butte.”

  Fred Hitch jerked as if he had been slapped, and Gerlach’s face went slowly dark. His eyes had been truculent, now they were cautious, studying. “What’s that mean?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Ain’t that where Indian Kelly hangs out?” Ryan asked mildly.

  “You seem to know.” Gerlach was suddenly cold. “I figure you’re a rustler your own self!”

  It was fighting talk, gun talk. Matt Ryan made no move. He forked up some more eggs. “One man’s opinion,” he said. “But what would make you think that? You’ve never seen me with a rope on my saddle, you’ve never even seen me before. You don’t know where I’m from or where I’m going.”

  All this was true…. Gerlach hesitated, wanting trouble, yet disturbed by the other man’s seeming calm. He had no gun in sight, and his rifle leaned against the wall. Still, you couldn’t tell.

  He snorted and sat down, showing his contempt for a man who would take an insult without fighting, yet he was uneasy.

  Matt glanced up to meet Kitty’s eyes. She turned her face deliberately, and he flushed. She thought him a coward.

  He lingered over his coffee, wanting a word with her, and finally the others left. He looked up when the door closed behind them. “There’s a dance at Rock Springs,” he said suddenly. “Would you go with me?”

  She hesitated, then stiffened a little. “I’d be afraid to,” she said. “Somebody might call you a coward in front of people.”

  Scarcely were the words out than she was sorry she had said them. His face went white and she felt a queer little pang and half turned toward him. He got up slowly, his face very stiff. Then he walked to the door. There he turned. “You find it so easy to see a man die?” he asked, and the words were shocking in their tone and in the something that spoke from his eyes.

  HE WENT OUT, and the door closed, and Hanna said to his daughter, “I don’t want you speakin’ to men like that. Nor do I want you goin’ dancin’ with strangers. Just the same,” he added, “I’d say that man was not afraid.”

  She thought about it and her father’s words remained with her. She held them tenderly, for she wanted to believe in them, yet she had seen the stranger take a deliberate insult without a show of resentment. Men had killed for less. Of course, she had not wanted that. (How he could have shown resentment without its leading to bloodshed she did not ask herself.)

  She was at the window when he rode out of town, and was turning away from it when the side door opened and a slender, narrow-faced man stood there. She felt a start of fear. This was not the first time she had seen Lee Dunn, and there was something about him that frightened her.

  “Who was that?” he demanded. “That man who walked out?”

  “I…I don’t know,” she said, and then was surprised to realize that it was the truth. She knew nothing about him, and she had seen him but twice.

  Lee Dunn was a narrow, knifelike man with a bitter mouth that never smiled, but there was a certain arresting quality about him so that even when you knew who and what he was, you respected him. His manner was old-fashioned and courteous, but without graciousness. It was rumored that he had killed a dozen men…and he had killed two here at the Springs.

  Kitty rode to the party in a buckboard with Fred Hitch. And she was dancing her third dance when she looked up and saw the stranger standing at the floor’s edge. He wore a dark red shirt that was freshly laundered and a black string tie. There was a short jacket of buckskin, Mexican style, over the shirt. His black boots were freshly polished.

  She saw Dutch Gerlach watching him, and was aware of worry that there would be trouble. Yet two dances passed, one of them with Dutch, whom she hated but could not avoid without one dance, and he did not come near her. Someone mentioned his name. Matt Ryan…she liked the sound.

  Lee Dunn came into the room and paused near Gerlach. She thought she saw Dutch’s lips move, but he did not turn his head. But that was silly…why would the foreman of the KY talk to a rustler?

  When she looked again Matt Ryan was gone…and he had not even asked her for a dance.

  Something seemed to have gone from the lights, and her feet lost their quickness. Suddenly, she knew she wanted to go home….

  MATT RYAN WAS RIDING FAST. He had seen Dunn come into the room and turned at once and slipped out through the crowd. What was to be done had to be done fast, and he went at it.

  The big bay was fast, and he held the pace well. An hour after leaving the dance Ryan swung the big horse into the KY ranch yard and got down. With only a glance at the darkened bunkhouse he crossed to the big house and went in.

  He had not stopped to knock, and he startled the big Mexican woman who was dusting a table. “Where’s Tom?” he demanded.

  “You can’t see him.” The woman barred his way, her fat face growing hard. “He sick.”

  “I’ll see him. Show me to him.”

  “I’ll not! You stop or I’ll—”

  “Maria!” The voice was a husky roar. “Who’s out there?”

  Matt Ryan walked by her to the bedroom doorway. He stopped there, looking in at the old man.

  Tom Hitch had been a giant. He was a shell now, bedridden and old, but with a flare of ancient fire in his eyes.

  “You don’t know me, Hitch,” Ryan said, “but it’s time you did. You’re losin’ cattle.”

  Before the old man could speak, Ryan broke in, talking swiftly. He told about forty head that had left the day before, in broad daylight. He told of other, smaller herds. He told of the rustlers’ growing boldness, of Lee Dunn at the dance, of Indian Kelly riding down to Hanna’s Stage Station.

  “They wouldn’t dare!” The old man’s voice was heavy with scorn. “I learnt ’em manners!”

  “And now you’re abed,” Matt Ryan said roughly. “And you’ve a fool and an outlaw for an adopted son, a gunman for a foreman.”

  Hitch was suddenly quiet. His shrewd old eyes studied Ryan. “What’s in you, man? What d’ you want?”

  “You’re down, Hitch. Maybe you’ll get up, maybe not. But what happens to the country? What happens to law an’ order when—”

  Somebody moved behind him and he turned to see Fred Hitch standing there with Dutch Gerlach. Fred was frightened, but there was ugliness in the foreman’s face.

  “You invite this gent here?” Dutch asked thickly.

  “No.” Old Tom sat up a little. “Tell him to get out and stay out.”

  The old man hunched his pillow behind him. “He forced his way in here with some cock-an’-bull story about rustlin’.”

  Gerlach looked at Ryan and jerked his head toward the door. “You heard him. Get out!”

  Matt Ryan walked to the door and went down the steps. Then swiftly he turned the corner and ran for his horse. A rifle shot slammed the darkness and knocked a chip from a tree trunk, but his turn had bee
n sudden and unexpected. He hit the saddle running and the bay bounded like a rabbit and was gone into the darkness under the trees. A second and a third shot wasted themselves in the night.

  How had they gotten on his trail so suddenly? They must have left the dance almost as soon as he had. And where was Kitty Hanna?

  MILES FELL BEHIND HIM, and the trail was abandoned for the sidehills and trees, and he worked his way across ridges and saddles, and found himself back at Pima Canyon with the sun coming up.

  All was still below, and he watched for half an hour before going down. When he got there he packed his spare horse and rode out of the canyon, leaving his diggings. They were good and getting better, but no place for him now. There were too many marks of his presence.

  Why had he gotten into this? It was no business of his. What if the lawless did come from the hills and the good times of the old KY were gone? Could he not ride on? He owned nothing here, he did not belong here. This was a problem for others, not himself. But was it?

  Was not the problem of the law and of community peace the problem of all men? Could any safely abandon their right of choice to others? Might not their own shiftlessness rob them of all they valued?

  Bedding down in the high pines under the stars, Matt Ryan thought himself to sleep over that. He had taken a foolish step into the troubles of others. He would stay out. Old Tom did not want his help, nor did Kitty want his love.

  Two days he rode the hills, for two days shifting camp each night. For two days he was irritable. It was none of his business, he kept telling himself. The old man had sent him packing, Kitty had turned him down. Nevertheless, he could not settle down. He rode back to Pima Canyon and looked around.

  Their tracks were everywhere. They had found this place, and had without doubt come looking for him. So he was a hunted man now. It was good to know.

  Yet he did not leave. Without reason for remaining, he remained.

  And on the third day he rode to Hanna’s Station. Kitty was not there, but her father was. Hanna looked at him carefully. “Maria huntin’ you. Come in here ridin’ a mule. Acted like she didn’t aim to be seen. Left word you was to see her.”

  “All right,” he said.

  Hanna brought him coffee and a meal. “Ain’t Kitty’s grub,” he said. “She’s to town.”

  The older man sat down. Dutch Gerlach was in with two men, he told Ryan, hunting for him. Or maybe, he added, hunting Fred Hitch.

  “Hitch?”

  “He’s gone. Dropped out of sight. Nobody knows why.”

  A rattle of horses’ hoofs sounded and Matt Ryan came to his feet quickly. Outside were four men. Dutch Gerlach, two hands…and Lee Dunn.

  Ryan turned sharply. He had left his horse in the trees and there was a chance it had not been seen. Stepping into the kitchen, he moved back to a door on his right. He opened it and stepped through. He was in Kitty’s room.

  There was a stamp of boots outside and a distant sound of voices, then a rattle of dishes.

  What had happened? If Lee Dunn and Gerlach were together, then—

  SUDDENLY HE WAS CONSCIOUS of a presence. In the shadowed room he had seen nothing. Now his hand dropped to his gun and he started to turn.

  “Don’t shoot, Ryan. It’s me. Hitch.”

  In a quick step Ryan was at the bedside. Fred Hitch lay in the bed, his face drawn and pale. His shoulder and arm were bandaged.

  “It was them.” He indicated the men outside. “Gerlach egged me into sellin’ some of the KY cows for gamblin’ money, said it would all be mine, anyway. Then he began sellin’ some himself, dared me to tell the old man.

  “Lee Dunn was in it with him, and I was scared. I went along, but I didn’t like it. Then, when you saw the old man, they got worried. They couldn’t find you, and they decided to kill the old man, then to take over. I wouldn’t stand for it, and made a break. They shot me down, but I got to a horse. Kitty hid me here…she went after medicine.”

  “They’ll wonder why she isn’t here now,” Ryan said half aloud. Then he looked down at the man on the bed. “What about Tom? Did they kill him?”

  “Don’t think so. They want me for a front…or him. Then they can loot the ranch safely. After that, other outfits.”

  Ryan stepped to the window. With luck he could make the trees without being seen. He put a hand on the window and slid it up.

  “Ryan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I ain’t much, but the old man was good to me. I wouldn’t see no harm come to him. Tell him that, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  He stepped out the window and walked swiftly into the woods. There he made the saddle and started for the KY. He had no plan, he had not even the right to plan. It was not his fight. He was a stranger and…but he kept riding.

  It was past midnight when he found the KY. He had been lost for more than an hour, took a wrong trail in the bad light…there were no lights down below. He rode the big horse down through the trees and stepped out of the saddle.

  There were a dozen saddled horses near the corral. He could see the shine of the starlight on the saddles. He saw some of those horses when he drew closer, and he knew them. They were riders from Thumb Butte…so, then, they had the ranch. They had moved in.

  And this ranch was the law. There were no other forces to stand against Gerlach and Dunn now. There were ten thousand head of cattle in the hills, all to be sold. It was wealth, and a community taken over.

  He stood there in the darkness, his face grim, smelling the night smells, feeling the danger and tension, knowing he was a fool to stay, yet unable to run.

  The old man might still be alive. If he could move in, speak to him once more…with just the shadow of authority he might draw good men around him and hold the line. He was nobody now, but with the authority of old Tom Hitch, then he could move.

  He loosened his gun in his belt, and taking his rifle walked across the clearing to the back door. He saw a man come to the bunkhouse door and throw out a cigarette. The man started to turn, then stopped and looked his way. He kept on walking, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. The fellow watched him for a minute, barely visible in the gloom, and then went back inside.

  MATT RYAN REACHED the back of the house and touched the latch. It lifted under his hand and he stepped in. Carefully, he eased across the room, into the hall. When he made the old man’s room, he hesitated, then spoke softly. There was no reply.

  He struck a match…it glowed, flared. Matt looked at the old man, who was slumped back against the headboard of his bed, his flannel nightshirt bloody, the eyes wide and staring. They had murdered Tom Hitch. Killed him without a chance.

  Matt drew back, hearing a noise at the bunkhouse. The match died and he dropped it, rubbing it out with his toe.

  A faint rustle behind him and he turned, gun in hand.

  A big old form loomed in the dark, wide, shapeless. “It me…Maria. He say give you this.” A paper rattled and he took it. “You go…quick now.”

  He went swiftly, hearing boots grating on the gravel. They were suspicious, and coming to look. He stepped out the back door and a man rounded the corner. “Hey, there!” the fellow started forward. “Wait…!”

  Matt Ryan shot him. He held the gun low and he shot at the middle of the man’s body, and heard the other man’s gun blast muffled by his body.

  He started by him, and a light flared somewhere and its light caught the man’s face. He had killed Indian Kelly.

  Rifle in hand, he ran, ducking into the trees. There were shouts behind him, and he saw men scatter out, coming. He could see their darker shapes against the gray of the yard. He fired four fast shots from the hip, scattering them across the yard. A man stumbled and went down, then the others hit the dirt.

  He ran for the bay, caught the bridle reins, and stepped into the leather. “Let’s get out of here!” he said, and the big red horse was moving…fast.

  Day was graying when he neared Hanna’s Station. He saw no horses around, so
he rode boldly from the woods to the back door. In the gray of the light, he swung down and knocked.

  Kitty opened the door. He stepped in, grim, unshaven. “Got some coffee?” he said. “And I want to see Fred.”

  “You…they killed him. Gerlach and Dunn. They found him.”

  “Your father?”

  “He’s hurt…they knocked him out.”

  He looked at her hungrily, anxious to feel her need of him. With his fingers he spread the paper Maria had given him.

  MATT RYAN: TAKE OVER.

  TOM HITCH

  The signature was big and sprawled out, but a signature known all over the Slumbering Hills.

  So…there it was. The problem was his now. Looking back, he could remember the old man’s eyes. Hitch had known that if he had shown the slightest willingness to listen to Ryan, they would both have been killed. But now the battle had been tossed to him.

  Kitty looked at him, waiting. “There it is, Matt. You’re the boss of Slumbering Hills.”

  The boss…and a hunted man. His only supporters an old man with an aching head, and a girl.

  One man alone…with a gun.

  THEY WOULD BE COMBING the hills for him. They would come back here. Kitty had been left alone, but then they were in a hurry to find him and Tom Hitch was living. Now it would be different.

  “Saddle up,” he said. “You and your dad are riding. Ride to the ranches, get the men together.”

  “What about you?” Her eyes were very large. “Matt, what about you?”

  “Me? I’ll wait here.”

  “But they’ll come here! They’ll be looking for you.”

  “Uh-huh…so I show ’em who’s boss.” He grinned suddenly, boyishly. “Better rustle some help. They might not believe me.”

  When they had left, he waited. The stage station was silent, the throbbing heart gone from it. He poured coffee into a cup, remembering that it was up to him now…. Suppose…suppose he could do it without a gun…. A time had come for change, the old order was gone…but did Lee Dunn know that? And in his heart, Matt Ryan knew he did not. For Lee Dunn was the old order. He was a relic, a leftover, a memory of the days when Tom Hitch had come here, Hitch already past his prime, Dunn not yet to reach his….