Showdown

by Louis L'Amour

  SHOWDOWN

  SHOWDOWN

  Louis L’Amour

  Showdown first appeared under the title “Showdown Trail” under the byline Jim Mayo in Giant Western (Winter, 48). Copyright © 1948 by Best Publications, Inc. Copyright not renewed. Copyright © 2008 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Copyright © 2017 by Golden West Literary Agency

  Cover design by Sean M. Thomas

  Book design © 2017 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover art © galuisy; joy fera; Robert Plotz; Allen Pinkall / Adobe Stock

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Library e-book ISBN: 978-1-5047-8817-5

  Trade e-book ISBN: 978-1-5047-8818-2

  CIP data for this book is available from

  the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  With slow, ponderously rhythmical steps, the oxen moved, each step a pause and an effort, each movement a deadening drag. Fine white dust hung in a sifting cloud above the wagon train, caking the nostrils of animals and men, blanketing the lean sides of oxen and horses, dusting with a thin film the clothing of men and women.

  Red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes stared with dazed weariness into the limitless distance before them, seeing nothing, knowing nothing. Long since, all had been forgotten but heat, dust, and aching muscles. Each succeeding step lifted a powdery dust, stifling and irritating. It lay a foot deep on the endless plain, drowning the sparse grass and sage.

  Rock Bannon, riding away from the train and alone, drew in his steel-dust stallion and turned in the saddle, looking back over the covered wagons. There were sixteen of them in a long line with some lead horses and a few outriders, yet not one who rode so far out as himself.

  From where he sat he could not see their faces, but in the days just past he had seen them many times, and the expression of each was engraved in his mind. Haggard, worn, hungry for rest and cool water, he knew that in the secret heart of each was a longing to stop.

  The vision was in them yet, the golden promise of the distant hills, offering a land of milk and honey, the fair and flowering land sought by all wandering peoples of whatever time and whatever place. No hardship could seem too great, no trail too long, no mountains impassable when the vision was upon them.

  It was always and forever the same when men saw the future opening beyond the hills where the sun slept. Yet this time the vision must hold meaning, this time the end of the trail must bring realization, for they had brought their women and children along.

  All had done so but Rock Bannon. He had neither woman nor child, or anyone, anywhere. He had a horse and a saddle, a ready gun, and a mind filled with lore of the trail, and eyes ever fixed on something he wanted, something faint and indistinct in outline, ever distant, yet ever real.

  Only of late, as he rode alone on the far flank of the wagon train, had that something begun to take shape and outline, and the shape was that of Sharon Crockett. His somber green eyes slanted back now to the last wagon but one, where the red-gold hair of Sharon on the driver’s seat was a flame no dust could dim. In the back of that heavily loaded wagon was Tom Crockett, her father, stirring, restless with fever, and hurt, nursing a bullet wound in his thigh, a memento of the battle with Buffalo Hide’s warriors.

  From the head of the train came a long, melodious halloo, and Cap Mulholland swung his arm in a great circle, and the lead oxen turned ponderously to swing in the beginning of the circle. Rock touched the gray with his heels and rode slowly toward the wagon train. He was never sure these days as to his reception.

  Cap’s beard was white with dust as he looked up. Weariness and worry showed in his face. “Rock,” he said, “we could sure use a little fresh meat. We’re all a mite short on rations, and you seem to be the best hunter amongst us.”

  “All right,” Rock said, “I’ll see what I can do after I get Crockett’s wagon in place.”

  Mulholland’s head turned sharply. “Bannon, I’d let that girl alone if I were you. No offense intended, but she ain’t your kind. I ain’t denyin’ you’ve been a sight of help to us. In fact, I don’t know what we’d have done without you, and we’re glad you came along, but Sharon Crockett’s another story. Her pa’s bedded down now, and in no shape to speak.”

  Bannon turned the steel-dust sharply. His face was grim and his jaw hard. “Did he ask you to speak to me? Or did she?”

  “Well, no … not exactly,” Mulholland said uncomfortably. “But I’m headin’ this train.”

  “Then I’ll thank you to mind your own business. Heading this wagon train is job enough for any man. Any time the Crocketts ask me to stay away, I’ll stay, but that’s their affair.”

  Mulholland’s face flushed and his eyes darkened with anger. “She ain’t your kind,” he persisted, “you bein’ a killer and all.”

  Rock Bannon stared at him. “You didn’t seem to mind my killing Indians,” he said sarcastically. “In fact, you killed a few yourself.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Cap persisted. “I ain’t gainsayin’ you ain’t helped us. Without you I don’t know if we could have beat off those Indians or not, but killin’ Indians and killin’ our own kind is a lot different thing.”

  “You’re new to the West, Cap.” Bannon’s voice was rough. “In a short time you’ll find there’s men out here that need killing a sight worse than Indians. In fact, I’m not so sure those Indians jumped us without help.”

  “What do you mean?” Mulholland demanded.

  “I mean,” Bannon said, “that Morton Harper told you there’d be no hostile Indians on this route. I warned you of Buffalo Hide then, but he told you he ranged farther north. You took his advice on this trail, not mine.”

  George Pagones and Pike Purcell were coming up to join them. Pike heard the last remark, and his lean, lantern-jawed face flushed with anger.

  “You ridin’ Harper again?” he harshly demanded of Bannon. “He said this was a better trail, and it is. We ain’t had no high passes, and we had six days of the best travel we’ve had since we left Council Bluffs, with plenty of water and plenty of grass. Now we get a few bad days and a brush with Indians, but that ain’t much.” He glared at Rock. “I’m sick of your whinin’ about this trail and Harper. I figure he’s a durned good man. He was sure a help to me when I needed it. Out of supplies, no medicine for the wife, and he staked me.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Rock replied shortly, “and I don’t like your tone. As far as your loan from Harper, remember that you haven’t heard from him on it yet. I’ve a hunch he’ll collect, and plenty.”

  “I don’t need no killer to tell me my business!” Pike snapped, reining his horse around to face Rock. “And I ain’t afeerd of no reputation for killin’, neither. You don’t bluff me none.”

  “Here, here!” Cap protested. “We can’t afford to have trouble in camp. You’ll have to admit, Pike, that we’d have been in bad shape a couple of times in that fight if it hadn’t been for Bannon. He’s been a help. I don’t agree with him on Mort Harper, either, but every man to his own idea.”

  Rock swung the steel-dust and cantered off toward the hills. Inwardly he was seething. He was a fo
ol to stay on with the wagon train—he understood that perfectly well. Not a man here liked him; not a man here talked to him except on business. He was not even a member of their train except by accident.

  They had found him at the crossing of the Platte. Riding, half dead, with two bullet wounds in his body, his horse ready to drop with fatigue, he had run up to the wagon train. Sharon Crockett had bedded him down in her wagon and cared for him, and he had ridden on in the same place where her father rode now.

  He had offered no explanation of his wounds, had talked but little. A grim and lonely man, gentle words came hard, and he could only look up into Sharon’s face and wonder at her beauty, tongue-tied and helpless. Yet his hard, tough, trail-battered body was too used to pain to remain helpless for long. He had recovered rapidly, and afterward he had ridden along with the wagons, hunting for fresh meat and helping when he could.

  He was not a man who made friends easily, yet gradually the ice was melting, and the clannishness of the wagon train was breaking down. Twice he had even talked with Sharon, riding beside her wagon, speaking of the mountains and his own wild and lonely life. All that had ended abruptly that night beside the campfire at the fort.

  They had been seated around the fire eating supper, listening to the bustle of life around the fort, when a tall, handsome man rode up on a beautiful black mare. Perfectly groomed, his wide, white hat topping coal-black hair that hung to his shoulders, a drooping black mustache and a black broadcloth suit, the trousers tucked into hand-tooled boots, Morton Harper had been a picture to take any eye.

  Swinging down, he had walked up to the fire. “Howdy, folks!” His voice was genial, his manner warm and pleasant. In an instant his personality and voice had done what Rock Bannon’s could not do in two weeks. He had broken down their reserve and become one of the group. “Heading for California?”

  “Reckon we are,” Mulholland had agreed. “We ain’t rightly decided whether to stay on the Humboldt Trail or to swing north and go to Oregon.”

  “Why go either way?” Harper asked. “There’s a southern route I could recommend that would be much easier going for your womenfolk.” His alert eyes had already found and appraised Sharon Crockett. “More water, plenty of grass, and no high mountain passes.”

  Cap Mulholland looked up interestedly. “We ain’t heard of no such pass, nor no such trail,” he admitted. “How does she go?”

  “Man named Hastings scouted some of it, and I scouted the rest myself. It is a more southerly route, and within another few months all the travel will be going that way. Right now—” he winked “—the trains that go that way are going to have a mighty fine trip of it. Very little dust except in one stretch, fine grass, lots of water. Also, the hostile Indians are all raiding far north of there along the traveled routes.

  “But,” he added, “I can see you’re well led, and you’ll no doubt learn about this trail yourselves. From the look of your teams I’d say you were lucky in your choice of a leader.”

  Leaning against the hub of a wagon wheel, Rock Bannon ate in silence. The even, smooth flow of the stranger’s language had an enchanting quality, but his own hard-grained, cynical character was impervious to mere talk.

  As the hours flowed by, Harper sat among them, pleasing the men with subtle flattery, the women with smiles. The reserve of the group thawed under his easy manner, and before long they began to discuss his trail and its possibilities, considering themselves fortunate to know of it first.

  There was some talk of putting it to a vote, but it was morning before it came to that. Until then, Rock was silent. “You’d do better,” he interposed suddenly, “to stick to the regular trail.”

  Harper’s head came up sharply, and his eyes leveled at Bannon. “Have you ever been over the trail I suggest, my friend?”

  “Part way,” Rock replied. “Only part of it.”

  “And was that part easy going for oxen and horses? Was there a good trail? Grass? Water?”

  “Yes, I reckon it has all that, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “You say it is a better trail but you wouldn’t advise it?” Harper glanced around at the others, smiling tolerantly. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it? I’ve been over the entire trail and found it very good going. Moreover, I can give you a map of the trail showing the water holes, everything. Of course, it’s nothing to me what route you take, but if you want to avoid Indians ….” He shrugged.

  “What about Buffalo Hide?”

  Morton Harper’s face tightened, and his eyes strained to pry Rock Bannon’s face from the shadows in which he sat. “He’s a Blackfoot. He ranges farther north.” Harper’s eyes shifted to Mulholland. “Who is this man? I’m surprised he should ask about Buffalo Hide, as he isn’t known to most white men other than renegades. I can’t understand why he should try to persuade you to neglect an easier route for a more dangerous one. Is he one of your regular train?”

  Pike Purcell was abrupt. From the first day he had disliked and been suspicious of Bannon. “No, he ain’t none of our crowd, just a feller what tied up with us back yonder a ways. He ain’t got no wagon, nothin’ but the horse he’s ridin’.”

  “I see.” Morton Harper’s face became grave with implied doubt. “No offense, friend, but would you mind telling me your name? I know most of the men along this trail, and Colonel Warren was asking about some of them only tonight. You’ll admit it is safer to be careful, for there are so many renegades who work with the Indians.”

  “My name’s Rock Bannon.”

  Morton Harper’s lips tightened and his eyes grew wary. For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then, as he perceived where his own interests lay, his eyes lighted with triumph.

  “Ah? Bannon, eh? I’ve heard of you. Killed a man in Laramie a month or so back, didn’t you?”

  “He drew on me.”

  Rock was acutely conscious of the sudden chill in the atmosphere, and he could see Sharon’s shocked gaze directed at him. The people of the wagon train were fresh from the East. Only Cap had been as far west as the Platte before, and he only once. They were peace-loving men, quiet and asking no trouble.

  Morton Harper was quick to sense his advantage. “Sorry to have brought it up, Bannon,” he said smoothly, “but, when a man advises a wagon train against their best interests, it is well to inquire into the source of the advice.”

  Bannon got up. He was a tall man, lean-hipped and broad-shouldered, his flat-brimmed hat shadowing his face, his eyes glowing with piercing light as he spoke.

  “I still say that route’s a darned fool way to go. This ain’t no country to go wandering around in, and that route lays through Hardy Bishop’s country. You spoke of Hastings. He was the man who advised the Donner party.”

  As his footsteps died away in the darkness, the members of the wagon train sat very still, their enthusiasm suddenly dampened by that ill-fated name. They all knew the story. The horror of it still blanketed the trail with its bloody shadow of the party caught by snows in the high passes and starving until they resorted to cannibalism as a way out.

  Morton Harper shrugged. “Of course. They started on Hastings’s trail, but left it too soon, and the route I suggest avoids all the higher passes.” His eyes swung around the group, gathering their attention like the reins of a six-horse team, and he led them on with promises and suggestions, an easy flow of calm, quiet talk, stilling their fears, quieting their doubts, offering them grass and water instead of dust and desert.

  *

  In the morning, when they moved out, they took the trail Harper had advised, turning off an hour after they left the fort. Harper glanced back, and smiled when he saw he was unobserved. Then he wished them luck and promised to overtake them once a message arrived for which he was waiting. Turning, he galloped back to the fort.

  Rock Bannon was remained with the train. He rode close to Sharon’s wagon, and after a time she looked up. He had watched her the night before, had seen her fascinated eyes on Harper’s face.

 
“You don’t approve, do you?”

  He shook his head. Then he smiled, somewhat grimly. He was a dark, good-looking man with a tinge of recklessness in his green eyes.

  “My views aren’t important,” he said. “I don’t belong.”

  “Pike shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “He’s a strange man. A good man, but very stubborn and suspicious.”

  “Not suspicious of the right folks, maybe.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You mean Mister Harper? Why should we be suspicious of him? He was only trying to help.”

  “I wonder.”

  “I think,” Sharon said sharply, “you’d do better to be a little less suspicious yourself. You admitted this was a good trail.”

  “You haven’t met Hardy Bishop yet. Nor Buffalo Hide.”

  “Mister Harper said that Indian was farther north.” She looked at him. “Who is Hardy Bishop? You mentioned him before.”

  “He’s a man who is trying to run cattle at Indian Writing. They said he’s insane to try it, but he’s claimed seventy miles of range, and he has cattle there. We have to cross his range.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “If you cross it, maybe nothing, but Bishop’s a funny man. He doesn’t like strangers very much. He’s going to wonder why you’re so far south. He’s going to be suspicious.”

  “Well, let him be suspicious then,” Sharon said, her eyes bright and her chin lifting. “We don’t care, and we won’t bother him any. Does he think he owns the whole country?”

  “Uhn-huh,” Rock said. “I’m afraid he does. With some reason as far as that valley goes. He made it what it is today.”

  “How could any man make a valley?” Sharon protested. “This is all free country. Anyway, we’re just going through.”

  The conversation had dwindled and died, and after a while he rode off to the far flank of the wagon train. Sharon’s manner was distinctly stiff and he could see she was remembering that story of the killing in Laramie. After a few rebuffs he avoided her. Nobody talked to him. He rode alone and camped alone.