On the far side of the desert, there was a spring of water that tasted like rotten eggs—mineral water. He drank a little, rubbed the horse down with a handful of rabbit grass, and let him graze briefly. Then he mounted again, and went on, climbing into the hills.
Big Track was nearer. Somewhere not far from the great sky-stabbing pinnacle he had seen. Sweat streamed down his face and down his body under the new shirt. He squinted his eyes against the sun and the smart of the sweat. He had to skirt a towering peak to get to the vicinity of Big Track.
He was riding now with all thought lost, only his goal in mind, and a burning, driving lust to come face to face with Mort Harper. Somewhere ahead he would be waiting; somewhere ahead they would meet.
The sun brought something like delirium, and he thought again of the long days of riding over the plains, of Sharon’s low voice and her cool hands as he wrestled with pain and fever, recovering from the wounds of a lone battle against Indians. He seemed to feel again the rocking roll of the wagon over the rutted, dusty trail, tramped by the thousands heading for the new lands in the West.
Why had he waited so long to speak? Why hadn’t he been able to find words to tell the girl he loved her? Words had always left him powerless; to act was easy, but somehow to shape into words the things he felt was beyond him, and women put so much emphasis on words, on the saying of things, and the way they were said.
He swung down from the saddle after a long time and walked on, knowing even the great stallion’s strength was not without limit. The wild, strange country through which he was going now was covered with blasted boulders, the rough, slag-like lava, and scattered pines, dwarfish and wind-bedraggled, whipped into agonized shapes by the awful contortions of the wind.
Then he saw the stark pinnacle almost ahead, and he saw, beyond it, the green of Big Track. He climbed back into the saddle again, and mopped the sweat from his face. The big horse walked wearily now, but the goal was reached. Rock Bannon loosened the guns in their holsters, and, grim-faced, he turned down a natural trail that no man had ridden before him, and into the green lush splendor of Big Track Hollow.
The smell of the grass was rich and almost unbelievable, and he heard a bird singing and the sudden whir of wings as some game bird took off in sudden flight. Water sounded, and the gray stallion quickened his pace. He skirted a wide-boled aspen and rode through a grass scattered with purple and pink asters, white sego lilies, and red baneberry. Then he saw the water and rode rapidly toward it.
He dropped from the saddle, taking a quick look around. No human sound disturbed the calm, utter serenity of Big Track. He dropped to his chest on the ground and drank, and beside him the steel-dust drank and drank deeply.
Suddenly the stallion’s head came up sharply. Warned, Rock felt his every muscle tense. Then he forced himself to relax. The horse was looking at something, and the calling of birds was stilled. He got slowly to his feet, striving to avoid any sudden movement, knowing in every muscle and fiber of his being that he was being watched. He turned slowly, striving for a casual, careless manner.
Mort Harper was standing a short distance away, a pistol in his hand. He was thinner, wolfish now, his face darkened by sun and wind, his eyes hard and cruel. Backed in a corner, all the latent evil of the man had come to the fore. Quick fear touched Rock.
“Howdy,” he said calmly. “I see you’re not taking any chances, Mort. Got that gun right where it’ll do the most good.”
Harper smiled, and with his teeth bared he looked even more vulpine, even more cruel. “We both know what it means to get the drop,” Harper said. “We both know it means you’re a dead man.”
“I ain’t so sure,” Bannon said, shrugging. “I’ve heard of men who beat it. Maybe I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“You don’t beat this one,” Mort said grimly. “I’ve come to kill you, man.” Suddenly his eyes darkened with fury. “I’d like to know how in blazes you got here!” he snapped.
“Figured you’d head for this place if you knew the country at all,” Bannon replied with a shrug. “So I cut across country.”
“There’s no other trail,” Harper said. “It can’t be done.”
Rock Bannon stared at him coldly. “Where I want to go, there’s always a trail,” Bannon said. “I make my trails, Mort Harper, I don’t try to follow and steal the work of other men.”
Harper laughed. “That doesn’t bother me, Rock. I’ve still got the edge. Maybe I lost on that steal, but I’ve got your woman. I’ve got her and I’ll keep her. Oh, she’s yours, all right … I know that now. She’s yours, and a hellcat with it, but it’ll be fun breaking her, and before I take her out of these hills, she’ll be broken or dead.
“I’ve got her, and she’s fixed so, if anything happens to me, you’ll never find her and she’ll die there alone. It’ll serve both of you right. Only I’m not going to die … you are.”
“All rat,” Rock said coldly. “A rat, all the way through. I don’t imagine you ever had a square, decent thought in your life. Always out to get something cheap, to beat somebody, to steal somebody else’s work and fancying yourself a smart boy because of it.” Rock Bannon smiled suddenly. “All right, you’re going to kill me. Mind if I smoke first?”
“Sure.” Mort sneered. “You can smoke, but keep your hands high, or you’ll die quick. Go ahead, have your smoke. I like standing here watching you. I like remembering that you’re Rock Bannon and I’m Mort Harper and this is the last hand of the game and I’m holding all winning cards. I’ve got the girl and I’ve got the drop.”
Carefully Rock dug papers and tobacco from his breast pocket. Keeping his hands high and away from his guns, he rolled a cigarette.
“Like thinking about it, don’t you, Harper? Killing me quick would have spoiled that. If you’d shot me while I was on the ground, it wouldn’t have been good. I’d never have known what hit me. Now I do know. Tastes good, doesn’t it, Mort?”
He dug for his matches and got them out. He struck one, and it flared up with a big burst. Rock smiled, and, holding the match in his fingers, the cigarette between his lips, he grinned at Mort.
“Yes,” he said, “it tastes good, doesn’t it? And you’ve got the girl somewhere? Got her hid where I can’t find her? Why, Mort, I’ll have no trouble. I can read your mind. I can trail you anywhere. I could trail a buzzard flying over a snow field, Mort, so trailing you would be ….”
The match burned down to his fingers and he gestured with it, then, as the flame touched his fingers, he let out a startled yelp and dropped the match. Jerking his hand from the pain—the hand swept down and up, blasting fire!
Mort Harper, distracted by the gesture and the sudden yelp of pain, was just too late. The two guns boomed together, but Mort twisted with sudden shock, and he took a full step back, his face stricken.
Rock Bannon stepped carefully to one side for a better frontal target, and they both fired again. He felt something slug him, and a leg buckled, but he fired again, and then again. He shifted guns and fired a fifth shot. Harper was on his knees, his face white and twisted. Rock walked up to him and kicked the smoking gun from his hand.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “Tell me!”
Mort’s hate-filled face twisted. “Go to the devil,” he gasped hoarsely. “You go … plumb to the devil.” He coughed, spitting blood. “Go to the devil,” he said again. Suddenly his mouth opened wide and he seemed to gasp wildly for breath that he couldn’t get. Then he fell forward on his face, his fingers digging into the grass, as blood stained the mossy earth beneath him.
Rock walked back to the horse and stood there, gripping the saddle horn. He felt weak and sick, yet he didn’t believe he had been hit hard. There was a dampness on his side, but, when he pulled off the new shirt, he saw that only the skin was cut in a shallow groove along his side above the hip bone.
Digging stuff from his saddlebags, he patched the wound as best he could. It was only then he thought of his leg.
There w
as nothing wrong with it, and then he saw the wrenched spur. The bullet had struck his spur, twisting and jerking his leg but doing no harm.
Carefully he reloaded his gun. Then he called loudly. There was no response. He called again, and there was no answering sound. Slowly Rock began to circle, studying the ground. Harper had moved carefully through the grass and had left little trail. Rock returned for his horse, and, mounting, he began to ride in slow circles.
Somewhere Mort would have his horses, and the girl would not be far from them. From time to time he called. Two slow hours passed. At times, he swung down and walked, leading the stallion. He worked his way through every grove, examined every boulder patch and clump of brush.
Bees hummed in the still, warm air. He walked on, his side smarting viciously, his feet heavy with walking in the high-heeled boots. Suddenly, sharply the stallion’s head came up and he whinnied. Almost instantly, there was an answering call. Then Rock Bannon saw a horse, and, swinging into the saddle, he loped across a narrow glade toward the boulders.
The horse was there, and almost at once he saw Sharon. She was tied to the top of a boulder, out of sight from below except for a toe of her boot. He scrambled up and released her, and then unfastened the handkerchief with which she had been gagged.
“Oh, Rock!” Her arms went about him, and for a long moment they sat there, and he held her close.
After a long time she looked up. “When I heard your horse, I tried so hard to cry out that I almost strangled. Then, when my mare whinnied, I knew you’d find us.”
She came to with a start as he helped her down. “Rock! Where’s Mort? He meant to kill you.”
“He was born to fail,” Rock said simply. “He was just a man who had big plans, but couldn’t win out with anything. At the wrong time he was too filled with hate to even accomplish a satisfactory killing.”
Briefly, as she bathed her face and hands, he told her of what had happened at Poplar. “Your folks will all be back in their homes by now,” he said. “You know, in some ways, Lamport was one of the best of the lot. He was a fighter … a regular bull. I hit him once with everything I had, every bit of strength and power and drive in me, and he only grunted.”
They sat there in the grass, liking the shade of the white-trunked aspens.
“Dud and Mary are getting married, Rock,” Sharon said suddenly.
He reddened slowly under his tan and tugged at a handful of grass. “Reckon,” he said slowly, “that’ll be the two of us.”
Sharon laughed gaily and turned. “Why, Rock, are you asking me to marry you?”
“Nope,” he said, grinning broadly. “I’m telling you. This here’s one marriage that’s going to start off right.”
The steel-dust stamped his hoofs restlessly. Things were being altogether too quiet. He wasn’t used to it.
the end
About the Author
Louis Dearborn LaMoore (1908–1988) was born in Jamestown, North Dakota. He left home at fifteen and subsequently held a wide variety of jobs although he worked mostly as a merchant seaman. From his earliest youth, L’Amour had a love of verse. His first published work was a poem, “The Chap Worth While,” appearing when he was eighteen years old in his former hometown’s newspaper, the Jamestown Sun. L’Amour wrote poems and articles for a number of small circulation arts magazines all through the early 1930s and, after hundreds of rejection slips, finally had his first story accepted, “Anything for a Pal” in True Gang Life (10/35). He returned in 1938 to live with his family where they had settled in Choctaw, Oklahoma, determined to make writing his career. He wrote a fight story bought by Standard Magazines that year and became acquainted with editor Leo Margulies who was to play an important role later in L’Amour’s life. “The Town No Guns Could Tame” in New Western (3/40) was his first published Western story.
During the Second World War L’Amour was drafted and ultimately served with the U.S. Army Transportation Corps in Europe. However, in the two years before he was shipped out, he managed to write a great many adventure stories for Standard Magazines. The first story he published in 1946, the year of his discharge, was a Western, “Law of the Desert Born” in Dime Western (4/46). A call to Leo Margulies resulted in L’Amour’s agreeing to write Western stories for the various Western pulp magazines published by Standard Magazines, a third of which appeared under the byline Jim Mayo, the name of a character in L’Amour’s earlier adventure fiction.
L’Amour’s first Western novel under his own byline was Westward the Tide (World’s Work, 1950). L’Amour sold his first Western short story to a slick magazine two years later, “The Gift of Cochise” in Collier’s (7/5/52). Robert Fellows and John Wayne purchased screen rights to this story from L’Amour for $4,000 and James Edward Grant, one of Wayne’s favorite screenwriters, developed a script from it. L’Amour retained the right to novelize Grant’s screenplay, which differs substantially from his short story. Hondo (Fawcett Gold Medal, 1953) by Louis L’Amour was released on the same day as the film, Hondo (Warner, 1953), with a first printing of 320,000 copies.
With Showdown at the Yellow Butte (Ace, 1953) by Jim Mayo, L’Amour began a series of short Western novels for Don Wollheim that could be doubled with other short novels by other authors in Ace Publishing’s paperback twofers. Heller with a Gun (Fawcett Gold Medal, 1955) was the first of a series of original Westerns L’Amour had agreed to write under his own name following the success for Fawcett of Hondo. The great turn in L’Amour’s fortunes came about when he was signed by Bantam Books. By 1962 he was writing three original paperback novels a year. All of his Bantam Western titles came to be continuously kept in print.
There are also several characteristics in purest form that, no matter how diluted they ultimately would become, account in largest measure for the loyal following Louis L’Amour won from his readers: the young male narrator who is in the process of growing into manhood and who is evaluating other human beings and his own experiences; a resourceful frontier woman who has beauty as well as fortitude; a strong male character who is single and hence marriageable; and the powerful, romantic, strangely compelling vision of the American West which invests L’Amour’s Western fiction and makes it such a delightful escape from the cares of a later time.
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