The Quick And The Dead

by Louis L'Amour

  Vallian crouched, squatting at the foot of the tree, then he moved suddenly, swiftly, staying low. His body merged with that of a clump of brush.

  The Huron!

  He was out here ... he had to be.

  He had heard stories about the man. He was a skillful hunter, a stalker of game, and he had killed more than one man. He was like a ghost in the woods, and in this timber along the river, he was in his element.

  Vallian strained his ears for sound, heard nothing. He straightened up, keeping himself merged with the brush, much of which was clumps of willow and some persimmon, and moved away. He was good, he told himself, but was he as good as the Huron? Was he even half as good?

  He saw the shine of water from the river. On his right, between himself and the river the brush seemed to be an impenetrable wall. He crouched again, trying to identify the shapes around him.

  Did something move? Or was it imagination? He eased his rifle forward in his hands.

  The stab of flame struck his eyes before the report. The bullet was a whiplash in the night, then silence, but he did not move nor fire. If he moved now, he was a dead man.

  The Huron had shot at what he believed was him, and waited for the return shot or the move ... he did neither.

  He knew the Huron was ready, the slightest move, the slightest sound and the second shot would have nailed him, so he held still, drawing slow, careful breaths and listening. Con Vallian knew that he might get only one shot and he wanted that one to do the job. If he missed ... well, the Huron would not.

  The night was very still. Along the stream there were a number of towering cottonwoods and many smaller trees with a dense stand of brush. Near the ground there were frequent gaps, and if a man could keep clear of the blackberry thickets with their thorns...

  Vallian worked his way carefully, keeping close to the ground, pausing to listen for any movement. The wind that had quieted for a time, now began to rise again, but it had shifted around. The lightning that had flared in the distance was nearer, there was a rumble of thunder, then a crash and a stab of lightning.

  In that brief glare they saw each other, he and the Huron, and they were scarcely thirty yards apart. The Huron was luckier, for he was facing toward Vallian. Con turned sharply as he threw himself forward, landing on his shoulder and rolling into the turn. His gun came up, waiting for another lightning flash.

  It came, and at the far side of the clearing the brush moved suddenly and Vallian broke a lifelong habit. He shot at something he did not see. Instantly, from a dozen yards away, flame stabbed at him and he felt a sharp blow in his right side. He had started to rise, but the shot knocked him back into a sitting position. He fired instantly, then rolled swiftly away, feeling a stab of agony in his side.

  He was hurt, badly hurt. Another bullet struck a few feet to his left, and he rolled over into a small hollow bedded with damp leaves. A shot went right over him, then another ... searching fire.

  Vallian rolled out of the hole and lunged to his feet. For a moment, clutching his rifle, he stood swaying ... and then he moved away in the darkness. He was hit hard, in no shape to fight. His one thought now was to live ... to exist, to get away.

  His horse was some distance off, but he must have that horse.

  The wagon? The McKaskels? No ... too far away now, too hard to get to, and he'd be a trail to them. The Indians...

  Susanna had not gone to bed. She waited, near the wagon, watching the night and Duncan.

  He paced restlessly, worried. Suddenly they heard shots. She listened, hearing the sharp coughing reports, blunted toward the last by distance and the terrain.

  "Duncan? Do you think they killed him?"

  "Two of them were shooting ... maybe three. I don't know."

  Suddenly he knew what he had to do. He had a wife and son, and there was no time. He could not stay here to see if Con Vallian was alive or dead. The man was more fitted for this life than he, and there was no way in which he could help. The thing to do now was to insure the safety of his family.

  "Susanna? Wake Tom up. We're going to leave."

  She did not waste time. Duncan had hesitated, been uncertain, but now he spoke quickly, decisively. She shook Tom who was instantly awake. By the time they were out of the wagon Duncan had led up the horses. Tom took one side, he the other, and they threw on the harness, hooked up the traces.

  In a matter of minutes they were rolling. "Where?" Susanna whispered.

  He pointed with his whipstock. "There ... to the northwest. Away from the river."

  They would not expect that. On the other hand, by day they would be out on the open plain, exposed for all to see. Nonetheless, she said nothing. They all rode and the mules moved out quickly, seemingly willing enough to turn their backs on the river. Maybe the shooting had made them uneasy.

  He glanced at the stars, wishing he could tell time by them as some could. It must be an hour short of midnight ... perhaps less than that.

  The wagon made little enough sound in the wind and the rain and the first stretch was down a long slope to the west. The climb was harder, steeper, and the trail was muddy. Several times the mules made hard going of it but soon they were up and then they started out across the flat plains.

  The wind whipped at their wagon-cover and the rain beat against it. In the occasional lightning flashes, they looked back, but. they could see nothing, only distant, tossing trees, black against the suddenly gray grass when lightning flared and died.

  The rain was making it harder for the mules. She could feel the stronger pull they exerted, could see them leaning into the harness, and suddenly she was swept by guilt.

  What a fool she was! To measure her husband's life and her son's life against these few things! They must be rid of them. Yet she waited. Now was not the time.

  Guardedly, McKaskel looked at his watch. "I figure we're two miles off, Susanna. It isn't much ... an hour's time, I'd say, and time is the thing."

  They drove on, still heading northwest. After another hour they drew up to rest the mules. The rain was still falling, the wind blowing.

  "I hope Vallian's all right," Susanna said.

  "He will be."

  "But he's all alone! He might be hurt!"

  "He'll find us. We can do him no good if we're dead, or our stock gone. We've got to keep going."

  When McKaskel saw the first gray of dawn he began searching for a place to hide. The land was no longer flat, it was gently rolling with a few ravines. Had the rain wiped out their trail? For awhile there it had rained hard enough, he was sure of that. If so, they might have lost their enemies, and Vallian, too.

  He was almost glad of that. He hunched his shoulders against the ram and wondered if he had been jealous. No, he was sure of Susanna, and she was of him.

  Of what was he jealous then? Of how awkward and helpless he must appear in the face of the other man's easy, deft movements? Con Vallian always knew just what to do, and he did not. He must appear a poor second to his wife and son.

  It did not matter that back east, among their friends, Con Vallian would be considered an ignorant rustic. Out here was where they were, not back east.

  Women were nothing if not realistic. They were practical. Their very nature as bearers of children made them so. For whenever they looked at a man there must always be the subconscious question of whether that man could take care of her and her children?

  Well, he would have to learn. Maybe this was a wild goose chase, tearing off into the night like this without a trail, going God only knew where. Maybe he was stupid, but he had done it himself, he had made a decision and Susanna and Tom had jumped to help him.

  I've learned something, he told himself. I've learned that it is better to move than just to sit. One has to act.

  There was a dark fringe of something ahead and to the right. Only a glimpse, but it was there. He eased the team a bit further that way and after a few minutes he saw it, a hollow with a little timber. He drove along the edge, looking for a way d
own. He found a long slope, went down into it and pulled up near some trees.

  "Tom? Get up on the hill, keep out of sight, and keep your eyes open.

  "Susanna, we'd better have something to eat. I'll let the team have water and some time to graze."

  It was only four or five acres of timber and brush, a small, hidden place with a spring and a trickle of water that ran off to the northeast.

  "What are we doing, Duncan?" Susanna asked.

  "With luck, we will rest out the day, and start again after sundown. We can't move very fast, so we will have to move at night, hide by day."

  "But what about tracks?"

  "I think the rain would wash out the first few miles of them. Some of that was pretty rocky, anyway. We've got a chance, and that's all."

  They ate, took turns sleeping and watching. The horses drank, rolled, grazed, then drank again and rested. From a rocky, barren knoll featured only by some clumps of prickly pear, they watched the desert. In the distance they saw antelope. Tom knew he could trust the antelope to warn them, at least in that direction.

  Rain fell softly through the day and the antelope disappeared. Once, far off, Tom thought he saw something moving, but he had only a glimpse, then nothing more.

  Restless with lack of movement, Susanna walked down through the trees. They had stopped, found what was needed, and had gone no further, but now she walked into the deeper recesses of the woods, the area where the small ravine narrowed to a mere dimple in the hillside from the lower lip of which fell the water of the spring.

  It fell upon sand and vanished to appear thirty or forty feet further along, and then to become a trickle three or four inches wide down to where the wagon was, and the horses.

  Then she came upon a place where the rock had broken off and fallen, leaving a hollow overhang, a place such as cliff-dwellers used to wall up for houses. There was a shelter, five to seven feet high, twelve to fifteen feet deep at its deepest, and masked by brush. No rain penetrated here, not even with a strong wind from the west, because of the brush.

  She walked back to camp. "Duncan? Could you and Tom and I carry that chiffonier? And the bed?"

  "We loaded it, didn't we? I mean with your father's help. Yes, we could. Why?"

  "Call him down and let's do it. Our wagon's too heavy, Duncan. Mr. Vallian was right."

  Chapter IX

  When the Huron walked into camp they all turned to look. He crossed to the fire and squatted there, taking up the coffee-pot, blackened from many fires, to fill his cup.

  He was a tall, taciturn man in a buckskin shirt, homespun pants, and a battered black wool hat.

  "Well? What happened?" Booster demanded.

  The Huron sipped his coffee. "Good man," he said shortly, "very good man."

  "Did you get him?"

  "Maybe." The Huron sipped coffee then shrugged. "Maybe not. In the morning we will see."

  "You didn't trace him down? You mean maybe he's lyin' out there?"

  The Huron ignored the comment until he had eaten a strip of jerky, and then he said, "One does not go into the bush after a grizzly."

  "I'll be damned," Shabbitt took his cigar from his teeth and regarded it, then brushed the ash away. "I don't understand you, Huron. Sometimes I think you're less an Injun than a white man, and an eddicated one to boot."

  The Huron offered nothing, merely sipping his coffee. Finally he straightened up, rinsed his cup and walked to his bed.

  As he lay down he stopped, just before stretching out. "He is a good man. If he is not dead, somebody will die."

  "Come daylight," Ike Mantle said, "I'll have a look around. If he ain't dead, he better be."

  Con Vallian had been hit hard and he knew it. Near the base of a tree he pulled moss from the tree and packed his wound. The bullet had gone through his thigh, but no bones were broken. After a moment's rest, he pulled himself up by clinging to brush and with a staff made from a broken branch, his rifle clutched in his left hand, he started on.

  He made a hundred yards or so before he had to stop. He leaned against the bole of a tree, resting, panting heavily. By daylight there would be wolves on the scent, and he had to have left some blood sign back there. They would find that, then come after him.

  Finding a small stream, rushing knee-deep after the rain, he stepped in and worked his way up stream. It would fool nobody, certainly not the Huron, but it might slow them down. He knew that a tracked man will usually come out of a stream on the same side he went in, but he went out on the opposite side, pulling himself up where the rocks were waist high.

  For a few minutes he sat there in the rain, then with rifle and staff, pushed himself to his feet. He stood there, wavering from weakness, trying to make out his surroundings. A wink of firelight caught his eye ... it was several hundred yards off, no doubt the camp of the Shabbitt outfit.

  He made a dozen wobbling steps on the rock ledge before he had to step off, found another bare rock and managed to get to it. There was a long log going the way he wished to go, but he shied away. When it was wet like this the bark might slip off in places and that was the sort of sign the Huron could read at a dead-run.

  He staggered on, hitching himself along. Twice he fell. Once he crawled for several hundred yards, then managed to get up again. When he got to where his horse had been, it was gone.

  Even in the darkness he could see the white end of the broken branch. Frightened by something, a lion or wolf, probably, the horse had broken free and run off.

  He wasted no time in cursing his luck, for that never helped. He did pause long enough to think the situation through, for much depended on what happened next.

  They would not know his horse had run off. They would find its tracks and his and would conclude that he had mounted the horse and ridden away. Clinging to the bush he pulled off his boots, cut a rawhide string from the fringe of his jacket and tied them together by the loops and slung them over his shoulder.

  He walked on. What to do? It would do no good to go to the McKaskels, and their wagon was far away now, at least a mile and in the wrong direction.

  His first idea had been the best. He would go to the Indians. He had a rough idea of where their camp might be, and he started for it.

  What followed was nightmare. He hadn't gone fifty steps when he tripped and tumbled into a ravine, losing his staff, but clinging to his rifle. How long he lay there he didn't know nor even when he started out again.

  Somewhere along the way he became delirious. The loss of blood had weakened him, and he must have had a mounting fever. Perhaps it was only exhaustion, but all that followed was a hazy time of stumbling, staggering, moving—of falling, lying in the wet grass, rising and driving on. He went through trees and brush, tumbled into another gully and got himself out by crawling.

  The moss came loose from the wound so he used grass.

  He remembered lying on the grass and feeling hot sun on his back. Then he remembered trying to get up and hands taking hold of him. Somebody tried to take his rifle away and he clung to it. They tried to remove his gun belt and he struck the hands away and went to his knees, and then for a long time he remembered nothing at all.

  It was a sensation of smothering and of wracking movement that awakened him. Suddenly he was awake, lucid, listening. He was moving, his body lay on an incline and he was wrapped in something coarse and smelly. His fingers touched his gunbelt. He still had it. A slight movement of his head and his cheek touched the cold of his rifle barrel.

  He was lying on a travois wrapped in the folds of the buffalo-hide teepee. He was with the Indians then, and he was being moved. For some reason they were keeping him hidden.

  Suddenly the horse that was pulling him stopped with a jerk, twisted a little, then was still. There was a confused sound of movement, the galloping of horses. Then a hoarse voice ... Ike Mantle's voice. "You Injuns seen a wounded white man? We're huntin' him!"

  "No see."

  "You better not be lyin' to me, you Injun son-of-a—!" />
  "Ike! Shut up, damn you! That big buck yonder's got his rifle right across his saddle at you! Lay off!"

  "Why? There's only six of them and they—"

  "Eight," the Huron said calmly. "There are two others somewhere."

  There was a moment of silence. "We're huntin' a bad white man," Doc Shabbitt said, "you Injuns find him, kill him or bring him to us, you savvy?"

  Nobody said anything.

  "I'd like to shake 'em down," Ike said angrily. "What's in all those bundles? What's on the travois?"

  "Their lodges, Ike," Purdy said, "just the duffle they have to live with. Hell, if you want that gent so bad, let's hunt him. No use to start a war with these Injuns. We might whop 'em but we'd lose two or three and one of them might be you or me."

  Red Hyle swung his horse away. "Let's ride!" he said roughly. "We don't care about him, anyway. Let's find that woman."

  "All you think about's that woman," Booster said.

  Vallian heard the sudden creak of a saddle, the movement of a turning horse. "What I think about's my own damn business. You want to make something of it?"

  "Aw, Red! I was only makin' a joke! Forget it."

  "What I want to know," Dobbs said suddenly, "is what's become of Boston? It ain't like him to ride off with no reason."

  "He prob'ly thought he could find that gent," Booster said. "He saddled up early an' lit out. Said he had him a hunch.

  "Somebody shot ... just before daybreak it was. Somebody fired a shot off to the north."

  "I heard no shot," Shabbitt said irritably. "If there was one it might have been them Injuns."

  Con Vallian held himself very still, listening as the sound of the voices dwindled away with the sound of the horses' hoofs.

  Boston Pangman gone and a shot fired ... he scowled, puzzling over a vague recollection of something ... he drew his pistol, barely able to get it from the holster within the confines of the buffalo hide teepee. He swung out the cylinder. Two chambers were empty ... and he always reloaded.

  He succeeded in getting the pistol back into its holster and slowly relaxed. They were moving again, moving on.