At this moment there was room for only one thought in Hardy’s mind. Big Red, in the hands of such a man? Big Red, who had always trusted Hardy and loved him.
“No,” he said. “I won’t do it.”
“One more chance,” Cal said. In his voice the thin line of sanity that stretched between Cal’s calmness and his insane fury was almost broken. “One more chance, boy. I’ll kill the girl first.”
He half turned, rolling on his shoulder a little, to lift his pistol. “You got mighty little time, boy, an’ that girl’s got none at all. You call him now. I seen him out there, so call him.”
Cal eared back the hammer on the pistol, and the click was loud in the silence.
Chapter 16
HARDY WAS SURE that Cal meant to do just what he said, but there was no panic in him now. The hunger and the cold, the constant fear, the nights of worry and the days of struggle had given him something strong, even when they had been making him grow tired and weak. He was thinking now, and he knew that Cal would have to shift position to get a shot at them…or wait until the Indians had gone, if they ever did go.
“Mister”—Hardy’s voice was low, but it carried far enough—“you stick your head out to get a shot at me, and one of those Indians will sure enough kill you.”
“Boy,” came Cal’s wheedling tone, “you toll that horse over here. On him we can all git away…scotfree!”
Now that was a sure enough lie. If the horse came close, one man might jump on him and ride off…he just might…but the odds were against it. But three people? And the time they would take mounting up? There would be no chance of it, and Cal knew it. Cal wanted Big Red for himself, and if he did throw himself into the saddle and get away alive he would have Big Red to keep—and Cal was a mean, cruel man.
“No.”
“Boy”—Cal’s voice was trembling with fury—“I’m tellin’ you! I’ll kill—”
Two guns fired almost as one. In twisting about, Cal’s boot had thrust beyond the rock, and the two bullets spat sand, one of them doing no more than that, the other ripping the heel from his boot.
Cal jerked his foot back, and swore with deep and awful fury. Turning, he fired with his rifle into the brush where the shots had come from, then swiftly reloaded.
Hardy was almost afraid to look for Big Red; how long would it be before the Indians discovered him?
“Betty Sue, you be ready now,” he said. “We may have to run real fast…all of a sudden.”
“All right.”
At the end of the overhang just beyond where Hardy and Betty Sue were hidden behind the rocks, the space between the roof and the rock floor was only about four feet. Elsewhere along the front of the cliff the roof was six or seven feet above the floor. The rocks that now formed the pile had once been a wall enclosing this recess, which might have been a storage place for grain, or perhaps merely a sleeping shelter.
Peering out under the overhang towards the woods where Big Red stood, Hardy looked fearfully at the open stretch that separated them from the trees. It was possible they might get into the trees without being seen, but the chance was slight. Clinging to Betty Sue’s hand, he edged that way, keeping well down behind the rocks.
Another shot came from the Indians. Apparently they were undecided about attacking. To attack meant a warrior would die, and no Indian wanted to face certain death. To do a daring deed that he could sing about in the winter lodges was one thing; but this was something different.
Ashawakie knew they could kill this man—it was only a matter of time. He advised patience, so they waited.
But Ashawakie was restless, for it irritated him that the big red horse was not here, as he had believed he would be. They had captured two horses and they had taken a scalp. They had a rifle, a pistol, some clothes, and a blanket, along with a few odds and ends. Their foray was not unsuccessful thus far, but to Ashawakie it would be a failure if he did not get the great red stallion.
CAL SPOKE AGAIN. “Boy, you got one more chance. I tell you, no matter what happens, you call that horse or I’ll shoot the both of you!”
Hardy did not reply. He had just seen an Indian coming down from the brush on the far side, creeping closer and closer. If that Indian was seen by Cal, Cal would shoot, and they would all be looking.…
The Indian was well around on the right side of Cal, and close enough to make the try. He sprang up and, knife in hand, he charged.
Instantly Cal wheeled and fired, and as he did so Hardy grabbed Betty Sue’s wrist and they darted out from under the end of the overhang and ran for the woods.
Cal’s rifle shot caught the Indian full in the chest, at almost point-blank range, and the sound of the blast was still in the air when Cal wheeled, pistol in hand, and fired into the woods. And then he saw the children.
With a hoarse shout, he swung all the way around to fire, but at that instant there was a burst of firing from the woods. Cal held his fire, for the shooting was not directed at him.
An Indian burst from the woods, lying low across his pony, plunged across the open space, and was gone before Cal could do more than snap a quick shot that missed. From other parts of the woods dashed several others; one shot at him, the others fired behind them at some unseen enemy.
In an instant they were gone. The crash of gunfire ended, the Indians had fled. In the stillness there was the acrid smell of gun powder.
“Red!”
Cal turned sharply as the boy called. The stallion burst from the brush, whinnied softly, and came quickly up to the boy, who stood waiting, holding the girl by the hand.
The ugly fury, throttled by his inability to move while the Indians kept him under fire, burst now in a sudden, unreasoning desire to kill.
“Boy, bring me that horse!” The gun was up, tilted in his hand, ready to fire.
Hardy turned around, standing stiff and straight. “You leave us alone!” he said. “And you leave Red alone!”
The gun started to level in a coolly deliberate plan to murder, when Scott Collins stepped out from the trees.
“Drop it!” His voice rang sharply. “Drop it, Cal!”
Cal went to one knee behind the rocks and fired as his knee hit the ground. He aimed not at the children, but at Scott Collins.
Scott’s rifle muzzle had been lowered, but it came up in one easy move just a little above the hip.
Cal saw the leap of flame just as his own finger closed on the trigger. He felt the thud of a bullet on his chest and started to stand up for a better shot. The second shot, aimed at his head, caught him in the throat as he lunged up. The pistol dropped from his fingers and he fell, hit the rock parapet, and toppled over.
He rolled free, muttered a curse and tried to push himself up, then fell back.
Hardy was staring at his father. “Pa?” His voice was a trembling sound. “Pa?”
Scott went to him and dropped on one knee. “Hardy…Hardy, boy…” His voice was low and hoarse, and it faded out. He could not speak, but he caught the boy to him and clung to him, looking beyond him at Betty Sue.
“Come on, honey,” he said to her, and gathered her to him.
Fifty yards away, Bill Squires drew up alongside Frank Darrow. Squires took his chewing tobacco out, looked at it speculatively, then bit off a small piece. “You know something, Frank?” he said. “To be honest, I never thought we’d find them.”
“You didn’t?” Darrow grinned at him. “I reckon I always did, Bill. I figured if the boy was anything like his pa he would just keep a-comin’, and he done it.”
Scott Collins got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, and he gathered the reins of the big horse. “Climb up, Hardy. We’ve got to be moving on.”
When the boy was in the saddle, he lifted Betty Sue up.
“Pa,” Hardy said, “there’s a buffalo coat yonder. We carried it off from a dugout a ways back. Can we keep it, pa?”
“You’ll need it. We’ve got a cold ride.”
He walked over to the coat, glancing onl
y once at Cal. He remembered him now from Hangtown—he had known him the instant he put eyes on him.
When he was again in the saddle, and Hardy was wrapped in the buffalo coat, the boy said, “Pa? You carry Betty Sue. I think she’d like it.”
“I’d like it, too, Hardy. I surely would,” Scott Collins said.
The snow crunched under their horses’ hoofs, and a slight wind stirred, sifting a little loose snow. Some of the snow settled in the creases of Cal’s clothing, along the line of his lips, upon his open eyes. The wind stirred again, and more snow sifted down.
Hardy hunched his small shoulders under the buffalo coat, warm and snug. Somewhere ahead was Fort Bridger, and pa was riding right behind him.
About Louis L’Amour
“I think of myself in the oral tradition—
as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man
in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way
I’d like to be remembered as a storyteller.
A good storyteller.”
IT IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are nearly 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel), Down the Long Hills, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L’Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam Audio publishing.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L’Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life’s work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L’Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry the L’Amour publishing tradition forward.
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
The First Fast Draw
Flint
Guns of the Timberlands
Hanging Woman Creek
The Haunted Mesa
Heller with a Gun
The High Graders
High Lonesome
Hondo
How the West Was Won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man
Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Wells
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from Skibbereen
The Man from the Broken Hills
Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The Quick and the Dead
Radigan
Reilly’s Luck
The Rider of Lost Creek
Rivers West
The Shadow Riders
Shalako
Showdown at Yellow Butte
Silver Canyon
Sitka
Son of a Wanted Man
Taggart
The Tall Stranger
To Tame a Land
Tucker
Under the Sweetwater Rim
Utah Blaine
The Walking Drum
Westward the Tide
Where the Long Grass Blows
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains
Bowdrie
Bowdrie’s Law
Buckskin Run
Dutchman’s Flat
End of the Drive
From the Listening Hills
The Hills of Homicide
Law of the Desert Born
Long Ride Home
Lonigan
May There Be a Road
Monument Rock
Night over the Solomons
Off the Mangrove Coast
The Outlaws of Mesquite
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Riding for the Brand
The Strong Shall Live
The Trail to Crazy Man
Valley of the Sun
War Party
West from Singapore
West of Dodge
With These Hands
Yondering
SACKETT TITLES
Sackett’s Land
To the Far Blue Mountains
The Warrior’s Path
Jubal Sackett
Ride the River
The Daybreakers
Sackett
Lando
Mojave Crossing
Mustang Man
The Lonely Men
Galloway
Treasure Mountain
Lonely on the Mountain
Ride the Dark Trail
The Sackett Brand
The Sky-Liners
THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS
The Riders of the High Rock
The Rustlers of West Fork
The Trail to Seven Pines
Trouble Shooter
NONFICTION
Education of a Wandering Man
Frontier
The Sackett Companion: A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels
A Trail of Memories: The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique L’Amour
POETRY
Smoke from This Altar
DOWN THE LO
NG HILLS
A Bantam Book / February 2004
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam edition / January 1968
New Bantam edition / April 1971
Bantam reissue / May 1998
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1968 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except
where permitted by law. For information address:
Bantam Books New York, New York.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Please visit our website at www.bantandell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-89907-8
v3.0
Novel 1968 - Down The Long Hills (v5.0) Page 14