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

by Louis L'Amour

  McCarran’s eyelids tightened at the mention of the posse. “Forget it.” He waved his hand. “Sit down and have a drink. After all, we’re not fools, Sabre. We’re grown men, and we can talk. I never liked killing, anyway.”

  “Unless you do it or have it done.” Sabre’s hands remained where they were. “What’s the matter, Prince? Yellow? Afraid to do your own killin’?”

  McCarran’s face was still, and his eyes were wide now. “You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have called me yellow.”

  “Then get on your feet. I hate to shoot a sittin’ man.”

  “Have a drink and let’s talk.”

  “Sure.” Sabre was elaborately casual. “You have one, too.” He reached his hand for the glass that had already been poured, but McCarran’s eyes were steady. Sabre switched his hand and grasped the other glass, and then, like a striking snake, Prince McCarran grasped his right hand and jerked him forward, off balance.

  At the same time, McCarran’s left flashed back to the holster high on his left side, butt forward, and the gun jerked up and free. Matt Sabre, instead of trying to jerk his right hand free, let his weight go forward, following and hurling himself against McCarran. The chair went over with a crash, and Prince tried to straighten, but Matt was riding him back. He crashed into the wall, and Sabre broke free.

  Prince swung his gun up, and Sabre’s left palm slapped down, knocking the gun aside and gripping the hand across the thumb. His right hand came up under the gun barrel, twisting it back over and out of McCarran’s hands. Then he shoved him back and dropped the gun, slapping him across the mouth with his open palm.

  It was a free swing, and it cracked like a pistol shot. McCarran’s face went white from the blow, and he rushed, swinging, but Sabre brought up his knee in the charging man’s groin. Then he smashed him in the face with his elbow, pushing him over and back. McCarran dove past him, blood streaming from his crushed nose, and grabbed wildly at the papers. His hand came up with a bulldog .41.

  Matt saw the hand shoot for the papers, and even as the .41 appeared, his own gun was lifting. He fired first, three times, at a range of four feet.

  Prince McCarran stiffened, lifted to his tiptoes, then plunged over on his face and lay still among the litter of papers and broken glass.

  Sabre swayed drunkenly. He recalled what Sikes had said about the desk. He caught the edge and jerked it aside, swinging the desk away from the wall. Behind it was a small panel with a knob. It was locked, but a bullet smashed the lock. He jerked it open. A thick wad of bills, a small sack of gold coins, a sheaf of papers.

  A glance sufficed. These were the papers Simpson had mentioned. The thick parchment of the original grant, the information on the conflicting Sonoma grant, and then…He glanced swiftly through them, then, at a pound of horses’ hoofs, he stuffed them inside his shirt. He stopped, stared. His shirt was soaked with blood.

  Fumbling, he got the papers into his pocket, then stared down at himself. Sikes had hit him. Funny, he had never felt it. Only a shock, a numbness. Now Reed was coming back.

  Catching up a sawed-off express shotgun, he started for the door, weaving like a drunken man. He never even got to the door.

  THE SOUND OF GALLOPING HORSES was all he could hear—galloping horses, and then a faint smell of something that reminded him of a time he had been wounded in North Africa. His eyes flickered open, and the first thing he saw was a room’s wall with the picture of a man with muttonchop whiskers and spectacles.

  He turned his head and saw Jenny Curtin watching him. “So? You’ve decided to wake up. You’re getting lazy, Matt. Mr. Sabre. On the ranch you always were the first one up.”

  He stared at her. She had never looked half so charming, and that was bad. It was bad because it was time to be out of here and on a horse.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Only about a day and a half. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “What happened at the ranch? Did Keys get there in time?”

  “Yes, and I stayed. The others left right away.”

  “You stayed?”

  “The others,” she said quietly, “went down the road about two miles. There was Camp Gordon, Tom Judson, Pepito, and Keys. And Rado, of course. They went down the road while I stood out in the ranch yard and let them see me. The boys ambushed them.”

  “Was it much of a fight?”

  “None at all. The surprise was so great that they broke and ran. Only three weren’t able, and four were badly wounded.”

  “You found the papers? Including the one about McCarran sending the five thousand in marked bills to El Paso?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “We found that. He planned on having Billy arrested and charged with theft. He planned that, and then if he got killed, so much the better. It was only you he didn’t count on.”

  “No.” Matt Sabre stared at his hands, strangely white now. “He didn’t count on me.”

  So it was all over now. She had her ranch, she was a free woman, and people would leave her alone. There was only one thing left. He had to tell her. To tell her that he was the one who had killed her husband.

  He turned his head on the pillow. “One thing more,” he began. “I—”

  “Not now. You need rest.”

  “Wait. I have to tell you this. It’s about—about Billy.”

  “You mean that you—you were the one who—?”

  “Yes, I—” He hesitated, reluctant at last to say it.

  “I know. I know you did, Matt. I’ve known from the beginning, even without all the things you said.”

  “I talked when I was delirious?”

  “A little. But I knew, Matt. Call it intuition, anything you like, but I knew. You see, you told me how his eyes were when he was drawing his gun. Who could have known that but the man who shot him?”

  “I see.” His face was white. “Then I’d better rest. I’ve got some traveling to do.”

  She was standing beside him. “Traveling? Do you have to go on, Matt? From all you said last night, I thought—I thought”—her face flushed—“maybe you—didn’t want to travel any more. Stay with us, Matt, if you want to. We would like to have you, and Billy’s been asking for you. He wants to know where his spurs are.”

  After a while, he admitted carefully, “Well, I guess I should stay and see that he gets them. A fellow should always make good on his promises to kids, I reckon.”

  “You’ll stay then? You won’t leave?”

  Matt stared up at her. “I reckon,” he said quietly, “I’ll never leave unless you send me away.”

  She smiled and touched his hair. “Then you’ll be here a long time, Mathurin Sabre—a very long time.”

  No Trouble for the Cactus Kid

  Even the coyotes who prowled along the banks of the Rio Salado knew the Cactus Kid was in love. What else would cause him to sing to the moon so that even the coyotes were jealous?

  The Cactus Kid was in love, and he was on his way to Aragon to buy his girl some calico, enough red and white calico to make a dress.

  It was seventy miles to Aragon, and the dance was on Friday. This being Monday, he figured he had plenty of time.

  Red and white calico for a girl with midnight in her hair and love-light in her eyes. Although, reflected the Cactus Kid, there were times when that lovelight flickered into anger, as he had cause to know. She had made up her mind that he was the only man for her, and he agreed and was pleased at the knowledge, yet her anger could be uncomfortable, and the Cactus Kid liked his comfort.

  The paint pony switched his tail agreeably as he cantered down the trail, the Kid lolling in the saddle. Only a little ride to Aragon, then back with the calico. It would take Bonita only a little while to make a dress, a dress that would be like a dream once she put it on.

  Love, the Cactus Kid decided, was a good thing for him. Until he rode up to Coyote Springs and met Bonita, he had been homeless as a poker chip and ornery as a maverick mule.

  Now look at
him! He was riding for Bosque Bill Ryan’s Four Staff outfit, and hadn’t had a drink in two months!

  Drinking, however, had never been one of his pet vices. By and large he had one vice, a knack for getting into trouble. Not that he went looking for trouble; it was simply that it had a way of happening where he was.

  The Cactus Kid was five feet seven in his socks, and weighed an even one hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was sandy and his eyes were green, and while not a large man it was generally agreed by the survivors that he could hit like a man fifty pounds heavier. His fighting skill had been acquired by diligent application of the art.

  On this ride he anticipated no trouble. Aragon was a peaceful town. Had it been Trechado, now, or even Deer Creek…but they were far away and long ago, and neither town had heard the rattling of his spurs since he met Bonita…nor would they.

  It was spring. The sun was bright and just pleasantly warm. The birds were out, and even the rabbits seemed rather to wait and watch than run. His plan was to stop the night at Red Bluff Stage Station. Scotty Ellis, his friend, was majordomo at the station now, caring for the horses and changing teams when the stages arrived. It had been a month since he had visited with Scotty, and the old man was always pleased to have visitors.

  The Cactus Kid was happy with the morning and pleased with his life. He was happy that Bosque Bill had let him have a week off to do as he pleased, work being slack at the moment. Next month it would be going full blast, and every hand working sixteen hours a day or more.

  The Cactus Kid didn’t mind work. He was, as Bosque Bill said, a “hand.” He could ride anything that wore hair and used his eighty-foot California riata with masterly skill. He enjoyed doing things he did well, and he had found few things he couldn’t do well.

  The saw-toothed ridge of the Tularosa mountains combed the sky for clouds, and Spot, the sorrel-and-white paint, bobbed his head and cocked an ear at the Cactus Kid’s singing. The miles fell easily behind and the Kid let the paint make his own pace.

  They dropped into a deep canyon following a winding trail. At the bottom the two-foot-wide Agua Fria babbled along over the gravel. The Kid dropped from the saddle and let Spot take his own time in drinking. Then he lowered himself to his chest and drank. He was just getting up when the creek spat sand in his face, and the report of a rifle echoed down the canyon walls.

  The Cactus Kid hit his feet running, and dove to shelter behind a boulder just as a bullet knocked chips from it.

  Spot, in his three years of carrying the Kid, had become accustomed to the sounds of battle and rifle shots, and in two quick bounds was himself among the rocks and trees and out of sight.

  The Kid had hit the dirt behind his boulder with his Colt in his fist. His hat off, he peered from alongside the rock to see who and why. A glance was enough to tell him his Colt wasn’t going to be much help, so rolling over, he got into the rocks and scrambled back to the paint. Holstering the Colt, he slid his Winchester from its scabbard. Then he waited.

  His position wasn’t bad. It could be no more than an hour’s ride to Red Bluff Station, and he had until Friday to return with the material. Well, until Thursday, anyway. How long did it take to make a dress?

  No more shots were fired, but he waited. At first he was calm, then irritated. After all, if the dry-gulcher wanted a fight why didn’t he get on with it?

  No shots, no sounds. The Cactus Kid removed his hat again and eased it around the boulder on a stick. Nothing happened.

  The Cactus Kid, rifle ready, stepped from behind his rocks. There was no shot, nothing but the chuckling of the stream over the gravel. Disgusted, he swung into the saddle and turned his horse upstream. In a few minutes he glimpsed a boot heel.

  Rifle ready, he circled warily. It was not until he drew up beside him that he saw the man was dead. He was lying flat on his face and had been shot at least twice through the head and twice through the body. Kneeling beside him, the Cactus Kid studied the situation.

  One shot, which wounded the dead man, had been fired sometime before. The wounded man had crawled here, seeking shelter. He had been followed and shot at least twice more while lying on the ground.

  Whoever had done the killing had intended it to be just that, a killing. This was not merely a robbery.

  The dead man’s pockets were turned inside out, and an empty wallet lay on the ground. Empty of money, that is. There were several papers in the wallet, a couple of faded letters and a deed. A sweat stain ran diagonally across the papers.

  Pocketing them, the Cactus Kid looked around thoughtfully. Seeing some bloodstains, he followed the track left by the wounded man back to the main trail. Here the story became simple.

  The man had been riding along the trail toward the canyon when shot. He had fallen from his horse into the dust, had gotten to his feet, and had fired at his killer. Two empty cartridge cases lay on the ground.

  Evidently the wounded man had ejected the two empty shells and reloaded, and then had been hit again and had tried to crawl to a hiding place or a better place from which to fight.

  Scouting around and checking obvious ambush sites, the Kid found where the killer had waited, smoking a dozen or more cigarettes. There were marks in the dust where a saddle had rested.

  A saddle, and no horse? Scouting still more, he found the horse. It was a rangy buckskin, and from the looks of it the horse had been literally run to death. Its hair was streaked with dried sweat and foam.

  “Whoever he was,” the Kid said aloud, “he was goin’ someplace in a hurry, or gettin’ away from something. He killed his horse, then holed up here until a rider came along, dry-gulched him, robbed the body, and rode off on his horse.”

  Returning, the Kid rolled the dead man’s body over a small sand-bank, then caved the sand over him and added rocks and brush.

  Whoever had fired at him had been the killer, and he could not be far ahead. The hour was now getting close to sunset, and if the Kid wanted to join Scotty Ellis at supper he had best hurry.

  The sun was over the horizon when he loped his horse down to the Red Bluff Station. Scotty came to the door shading his eyes against the last glare of sunlight.

  “Kid! Sakes alive, Kid! I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age! Some cowhand from over at the Four Star told me you was fixin’ to get yourself hitched up.”

  “Got it in mind, Scotty. A man can’t run maverick all his life.” He led his horse to the corral and stripped the gear from his back, glancing around as he did so. No strange horses in the corral, no recent tracks except for the stage, a few hours back.

  He followed Scotty into the station, listening with only half his attention to the old man’s talk. It was the chatter of a man much alone, trying to get it all said in minutes.

  As he dished up supper the Kid asked, “Any riders come through this afternoon?”

  “Riders? Yep, two, three of them went by. One big feller headin’ toward Coyote Springs, and a couple more pointin’ toward Aragon.”

  “Two? Riding together?”

  “Nope. They wasn’t together. A big feller on a blood bay come through, and a few minutes later another feller, almost as big, ridin’ a grulla mustang. Neither of them stopped. Folks are getting’ so they don’t even stop to pass the time o’ day!”

  Two men? He had seen only one, but if they arrived at about the same time then the other rider must have been within the sound of the rifle when the killer had fired at the Kid.

  At daybreak he rolled out of his blankets, fed and watered his horse, then washed and dried his hands and face at the washbowl outside the door.

  “Scotty,” he asked, over his second cup of coffee, “did you get a good look at either of those riders?”

  “Wal, don’t recollect I did. Both big fellers. Feller on the bay hoss had him one of those ol’ Mother Hubbard saddles.”

  Riding out for Aragon, the Kid reflected that none of it was his business. The thing to do was report what he’d found to the sheriff or his deputy in Aragon, then bu
y his calico and head for home.

  He smiled at himself. A few weeks back, before he met Bonita, he would have been so sore at that gent who fired at him that he’d not have quit until he found him. Now he was older and wiser.

  Aragon was a one-street town with a row of false-fronted buildings on one side, on the other a series of corrals. The buildings consisted of a general store, two saloons, a jail with the deputy sheriff ’s office in front, a boarded up Land Office and two stores.

  As he rode along the street his eyes took in the horses at the hitching rail. One of them was a blood bay with a Hubbard saddle, the other a grulla. The horse with the Mother Hubbard saddle had a Henry rifle in the boot. The grulla’s saddle scabbard carried an old Volcanic.

  The deputy was not in his office. A cowhand sitting on the top rail of the corral called over that the deputy had ridden over to Horse Mesa. The Cactus Kid walked back along the street and entered the busiest saloon. One drink and he would be on his way. Picking up the calico would require but a few minutes.

  Several men were loitering at the bar. One was a lean, wiry man with bowed legs, and a dry, saturnine expression. He glanced at the Cactus Kid and then looked away. There was another man, standing near him but obviously not with him, who was a large, bulky man with bulging blue eyes which stared at the Kid like a couple of aimed rifles.

  Of course, even the Cactus Kid would have admitted that he was something to look at when not in his working clothes. He was, he cheerfully confessed, a dude. His sombrero was pure white, with a colored horsehair band. His shirt was forest green, and over it he wore a beautifully tanned buckskin vest heavily ornamented with Indian work in beads and porcupine quills. His crossed gun belts were of russet leather, the belt and holsters studded with silver. His trousers were of homespun, but striped, and his boots were highly polished, a rare thing on the frontier.

  The larger of the two men eyed him disdainfully, then looked away. The Kid was used to that, for those who did not know him always assumed he was a tenderfoot, a mistake that had led to more than one bit of the trouble that seemed to await him at every corner.