Showdown

by Louis L'Amour

  The valley was empty. Rock lifted his red-rimmed eyes and stared south. He saw no horsemen, no movement. He had beaten them. He would be home before they came. And once he was home, he could stand beside the big old man who called him son, and they would face the world together, if need be.

  Let Harper come. He would learn what fighting meant. These men were not of the same flesh or the same blood, but the response within them was the same, and the fire that shaped the steel of their natures was the same. They were men bred to the Colt. Bred to the law of strength. Men who knew justice, but could fight to defend what was theirs and what they believed.

  He was not thinking that. He was thinking nothing. He was only moving. The steel-dust plodded on into the ranch yard, and he fell rather than stepped from the saddle. Springer rushed out to get his horse.

  “My stars, man! How’d you get here?”

  “Over the mountain,” Bannon said, and walked toward the house.

  Awed, Springer turned and looked toward the towering, six-thousand-foot ridge. “Over the mountain,” he said. “Over the mountain!” He stripped the saddle from the big horse and turned it into the corral, and then almost ran to the bunkhouse to tell Turner. “Over the mountain!”

  Hardy Bishop looked up from his great chair, and his eyes sharpened. Rock raised a hand, and then walked on through the room, stripping his sodden clothing as he went. When he reached the bed, he pulled off one boot and then rolled over and stretched out, his left spur digging into the blanket.

  Bishop followed him to the room and stared down at him grimly, then he walked back and dropped into the chair. Well, he reflected, for that I can be thankful. I have a man for a son.

  It was a long time ago that he first came into this valley with old John Day. They had come down through the narrows and looked out over the wide, beautiful length of it, and he had seen what he knew he was looking for. He had seen paradise.

  There were men in the West then, men who roamed the streams for beaver or the plains for buffalo. They lived and traded and fought with the Indians, learning their ways and going them one better. They pushed on into new country, country no white man had seen.

  There were men like John Colter, who first looked into the Yellowstone region, old Jim Bridger, who knew the West as few men. There were John Day, Jedediah Smith, John Hoback, Wilson Price Hunt, Kit Carson, and Robert Stuart. Most of them came for fur or game, and later they came for gold, but there were a few even then who looked for homes, and one of the first was Hardy Bishop.

  He had settled here, buying the land from the Indians and trading with them long before any other white man dwelled in the region. Once, a whole year had passed when he saw not even a trapper.

  The Kaws were usually his friends, but the Crows were not, and occasionally raiding parties of Blackfeet came down from the north. When they were friendly, he talked or traded, and, when they wanted to fight, he fought. After a while, even the Crows left him alone, learning friendship was more profitable than death, and many had died.

  Bad days were coming. From the seat in the great hide-bound chair, Hardy Bishop could see that. The trouble with Indians would be nothing compared to the trouble with white men, and he was glad that Rock was a man who put peace first, but who handled a gun fast.

  He raised his great head, his eyes twinkling. They were keen eyes that could see far and well. Even the Indians respected them. He could, they said, trail a snake across a flat rock, or a duck downstream through rough water. What he saw now was a horseman, riding toward the ranch. One lone horseman, and there was something odd in the way he rode.

  It was not a man. It was a woman. A white woman. Hardy Bishop heaved himself ponderously from the chair. It had been almost ten years since he had seen a white woman. He walked slowly to the door, hitching his guns around just in case.

  The sun caught her hair and turned it to living flame. His dark eyes kindled. She rode up to the steps, and he saw Springer and Turner, gaping, in the bunkhouse door. She swung down from her black mare and walked over to him. She was wearing trousers and a man’s shirt. Her throat was bare in the open neck. He smiled. Here was a woman!

  Chapter Eight

  Sharon looked up at Bishop, astonished. Somehow, she had always known he would be big, but not such a monster of a man. Six feet four he stood, in his socks, and weighing three hundred pounds. His head was covered with a shock of iron-gray hair, in tight curls. His eyes twinkled, and massive forearms and hands jutted from his sleeves.

  “Come in! Come in!” he boomed. “You’ll be Sharon Crockett, then. I’ve heard of you. Heard a sight of you!” He looked around as she hesitated on the steps. “What’s the matter? Not afraid of an old man, are you? Come in.”

  “It isn’t that. Only we’ve come here like this … and it was your land, and ….”

  “Don’t explain.” He shook his head. “Come in and sit down. You’re the first white woman who ever walked into this house. First one ever saw it, I reckon. Rock, he’s asleep. Dead to the world.”

  “He’s safe then?” she asked. “I was afraid. I saw them go after him.”

  “There was trouble?” He looked at her keenly. “What happened?”

  She told him about the killing of Pete Zapata and what had happened afterward. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “In a way, I’m asking for peace. We didn’t know. We were foolish not to have listened to Rock in the beginning, when he told us about Mort. My father and the settlers want peace. I don’t know about Pike Purcell and Lamport, but I can speak for the rest of us.”

  Bishop nodded his head. “Rock told me what he was goin’ for. So he killed Zapata? That’ll please the boys.” He turned his head. “Dave!” he bellowed.

  A face covered with a shock of mussed hair and beard shoved through the door.

  “Bring us some coffee! And some of that cake! We’ve got a lady here, by ….” He flushed. “Excuse me, ma’am. Reckon my manners need a goin’ over. We cuss a sight around here. A sight too much, I reckon. ’Course, I ain’t never figured on gettin’ into heaven, anyways. I been pretty much of a sinner and not much of a repenter. Reckon they’d have to widen the gate some. I’d be a sight of weight to get into heaven. Most likely, they’d have to put some cribbin’ under the cloud I set on, too.” He chuckled, looking at her. “So you’re the girl what’s goin’ to marry Rock?”

  She jumped and flushed. “Why! Why, I ….”

  “Don’t let it get you down, ma’am. Reckon I’m a blunt old codger. It’s true enough, the boy ain’t said a word to me about it, but I can see what’s in his eyes. I ain’t raised the lad for nothin’. When he took off on this rampage, I was hopin’ he’d find himself a gal. You like him, ma’am?” He looked at her sharply, his eyes filled with humor. “You goin’ to marry him?”

  “Why, I don’t know,” she protested. “I don’t know that he wants me.”

  “Now, listen here. Don’t you go givin’ me any of that demure, folded-hands palaver. That may go for those young bucks, but not for me. You know as well as I do, if a woman sets her cap for a man, he ain’t got a chance. Only if he runs. That’s all. Either give up and marry the gal or get clean out of the country and don’t leave no address behind. Nor no trail sign, neither.

  “You might fool some young sprout with that ‘he hasn’t asked me’ business, but not me. I seen many a young buck Indian give twenty head of ponies for some squaw when he could have had better ones for ten. And all because she wanted him and caused him to figure the price was cheap.

  “No, sir. I’d rather try to get away from a bear trap on each foot and each hand than a woman with her head set on marriage.”

  Flushed with embarrassment, she ignored what he had said.

  “Then … then, you’ll let us have peace, sir? You won’t be fighting us if we draw off from Harper?”

  “Of course not, ma’am. I reckon it’d be a right nice thing to have a few folks around once in a while.” His eyes flashed. “But no more, you understand. Only th
is bunch of yours. No more!”

  “And we can have our land, then?” she persisted.

  “Sure, you can have it. You can have what them other fellers got, too, when they get out. Sure, you can have it. I can’t set my hand to paper on it, though, because I never did learn to write. That’s true, ma’am. Never learned to write, nor to read. But I can put my name on the side of a house with a six-shooter. I can do that. But them pens. They always figured to be a sight too small for my hands. No, I can’t read printin’, but I can read sign. I trailed a Blackfoot what stole a horse from me clean to Montana one time. Trailed him six hundred miles, believe me or not. Yes, ma’am, I come back with the horse and his scalp. Took it right into his own village.”

  A startled yell rang out, and Springer burst through the door.

  “Boss! Boss! Here they come! Oh, quick, man! Here they …!”

  His voice died in the report of a gun, and Hardy Bishop lunged from his chair to see men charging the porch.

  Turner had started from the bunkhouse, but the rush of the horses rode him down. They heard his wild, agonized screams as he went down under the pounding hoofs. Sharon never saw the old man reach for his guns, but suddenly they were spouting flame. She saw a man stagger back from the door clutching at his breast, blood pouring over his hand.

  Then a wild figure wearing one boot appeared from the other room, swinging gun belts about his hips. Then Rock Bannon, too, was firing.

  A sound came at a rear window, and he turned and fired from the hip. A dark form looming there vanished. The attack broke, and Rock Bannon rushed to the rifle rack and jerked down two Henry rifles. Then he ran back, thrusting one at Bishop.

  The old man dropped to his knees beside a window.

  “Come up on us fast,” he said. “I was talkin’ to this gal.” Rock’s eyes swung to her, and then amazement faded to sudden grimness. With horror, she saw suspicion mount in his eyes.

  A wild chorus of yells sounded from outside, and then a volley of shots smashed through the windows. The lamp scattered in a thousand pieces, and from the kitchen they heard a cursing, and then the crash of a buffalo gun.

  “How many did you see?” Rock demanded.

  “Most like a dozen,” Bishop said. “We got two or three that first rush.”

  “A dozen?” He wheeled to the girl. “Did the settlers come? Did they? Are they fighting us now?”

  “Can’t be that,” Bishop said, staring out at the ranch yard, his eyes probing the corral. “No chance of that. This girl come with peace talk.”

  “And while she was talking, they rode in on us!” Rock raged.

  Sharon came up, her eyes wide. “Oh, you can’t believe that! You can’t! I ….”

  The thud of bullets into the logs of the house drowned her voice, along with the crashing of guns. Rock Bannon was slipping from window to window, moving on his feet like an Indian. He had yanked off his other boot now. A shot smashed the water olla that hung near the door. Bannon fired, and a man toppled from behind the corner of the corral and sprawled on the hard-packed ground near the body of Turner.

  “They’re going to rush us,” Bannon said suddenly. He began loading his Colts. “Get set, Hardy. They are going to rush.”

  “Let ’em come! The sneak-thievin’, pelt-robbin’, trap-lootin’ scum! Let ’em come! More’ll come than’ll go back!” As the outlaws rushed suddenly, charging in a scattered line, the old man burst through the door, his Colt smoking. A man screamed and grabbed his middle and took three staggering steps, and then sprawled his full length on the ground. Another man went down, and then a gun bellowed and the old man winced, took another step, and then toppled back into the room.

  Sharon stared at him in horror, and then ran to him. He looked shocked.

  “Hit me. They hit me. Give me my gun, ma’am. I’ll kill the scum like the trap-robbin’ wolverines they are!”

  “Ssh, be still,” she whispered. She began tearing the shirt away from the massive chest to search for the wound.

  Steadily, using now one gun and then the other, Rock Bannon fired. He could sense uncertainty among the attackers. They had shot the old man, but four of their own number were down, and probably others were wounded. They were beginning to lose all desire for battle.

  Watching closely, Rock saw a flicker of movement behind a corral trough. He watched, lifted his rifle, and took careful aim, and, when the movement came again, he fired, just under the trough.

  A yell rang out, and he saw a man lift up to his full height, and then topple over.

  “All right!” Bannon shouted. “Come on and get me! You wanted me! But you’d better come before the boys get in from north camp, or they’ll spoil my fun!”

  They wouldn’t believe him, but it might make them doubtful. He heard voices raised in argument. Then there was silence. He reloaded all the guns—his own, Bishop’s Henry, and the old man’s six-guns. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was hot. If they waited until night, he was going to have a bad time of it.

  There was a chance, however, that they would believe his story or fear that someone from the line cabin might ride far enough this way to hear the shots. If both groups came, they would be caught between two lines of fire and wiped out.

  An hour passed, and there was no sound.

  “Rock.” Sharon was standing behind him. “We’d better get him on a bed.”

  He avoided her eyes, but got up and put down his rifle. It was a struggle, but they lifted Bishop off the floor and put him on his homemade four-poster. While Sharon bent over him, bathing the wound and treating it as best she could, Rock walked back to the windows.

  Like a caged panther, he prowled from window to window. Outside, all was still. Only the bodies of the dead lay on the hard-packed ground of the ranch yard. A dust devil started somewhere on the plain and twisted in the grass of the meadow, and then skipped across the ranch yard, stirring around the body of Turner and blowing in his hair.

  Turner was dead. The old man had been with them almost as long as Rock himself. He had been like one of the family. And Bob Springer was gone, blasted from life suddenly, along with the young man’s enthusiastic plans for a ranch of his own. Well, they would pay. They would pay to the last man.

  The steel-dust had come back from the end of the corral near the creek. He seemed curious and approached the body lying near the trough with delicate hoofs, ready to shy. He snuffed at the body, caught the scent of blood, and jerked away, eyes distended and nostrils wide.

  There was no one in sight. Apparently the attackers had drawn off. They had anticipated no such defense as this. They had had no idea that Rock Bannon was home, nor had they realized what a fighter the old man could be. They had to learn what the Crows had learned long since.

  Rock waited another hour, continuing his slow prowl. Within the house he was comparatively safe, and he knew that to go out before he was sure was to tempt fate. From time to time he went into the bedroom where Bishop lay on the four-poster. He was unconscious or asleep, Sharon sitting beside him.

  He avoided her eyes, yet the thought kept returning, filling him with bitterness, that she had ridden here with peace talk and that under cover of her talk Harper’s men had made their approach. Knowing Bishop, he knew that unless his attention had been diverted, no rider or group of riders could have reached the ranch without being seen.

  Had she planned with Mort Harper to do this thing? Everything he knew about the girl compelled him to believe she would do nothing of the kind, yet the thought persisted; it was almost too much of a coincidence.

  After all, what reason had he to believe otherwise? Hadn’t she admired Harper? Hadn’t Pete Zapata been waiting in her cabin for him? Perhaps she had tried to warn him by throwing sticks on the fire, or it could have been an accident. The fact remained that, while visiting her, he had almost been killed in a trap laid by Zapata, and, while she had been making peace talk with Bishop, the raiding party had struck. It was not her fault they were not dead, both of them.


  He knew she came to the door from time to time, and once she started to speak, but then turned away as he avoided her eyes.

  Rock was crouching by a window when the sound of horse’s hoofs brought him to his feet. It was Bat Chavez astride a slim, fast buckskin. The horse shied violently at Turner’s body, and Bat had a hard time getting him to the door.

  Bannon rushed out. “Everything all right at the line cabin?”

  “Shucks, man!” Bat exploded. “That’s what I was goin’ to ask you. What happened here?”

  “They hit us. Dave opened up from the kitchen. Hardy and I shot it out up here. Bishop’s down, hit pretty bad. They got Springer and Turner, as you can see.”

  “Saw them cuttin’ across the valley for Poplar a few minutes ago. The boys are gettin’ restless, Rock. They want to ride over and wind this up.”

  “No more than I do,” Bannon said shortly. “Yes, we’re going. We’ll ride over and wipe that place out.”

  “Oh, no, you mustn’t.” Sharon had come into the door behind Rock. “Please, Rock. You mustn’t. The settlers don’t want to fight anymore. It’s just Harper’s crowd.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” Bannon said, “but I’ve seen no sign of them quitting yet. There were at least twelve men in this bunch. Did Harper have twelve men of his own? Not that I saw, he didn’t. And Zapata’s dead. So’s Miller. Where would he get twelve men?”

  He turned back to Chavez. “Get some food into you, Bat, and then ride back. I’ll be down before long, and, when I am, we’ll cross that valley. If the settlers get in the way, they’ll get what the rest of them got … what they gave Turner and Springer here. We’ve dallied long enough.”

  Rock Bannon turned and walked back into the house. Sharon stared at him, her face white.

  “Then you won’t believe me?” she protested. “You’ll go over there and kill innocent people?”

  “Who killed Springer and Turner?” Rock demanded harshly. “In what way had they offended? I don’t know that your settlers are innocent. I tried to tell them what they were going into, and they wouldn’t believe me. Well, they came, and, if they get their tails in a crack, they’ve only themselves to blame.