“But you killed him.”
Marshal Moore gestured toward the street. “It was like that. Guns exploding, a man dying almost at my feet, then someone rushing up behind me in a town where I had no friends. I fired at a man who was shooting at me, turned and fired at one running up behind me. I killed my best friend, your brother.”
She knew now how it must have been for this man, and she was silent.
“And now?” she asked finally.
“My job goes to Johnny Haven, but I shall stay here and try to help the town grow. This fight should end it for a while. In the meantime the town can mature, settle down, and become a place to live in instead of just a place to camp for the night.”
“I—I guess it’s worth doing.”
“It is.” He put down his unlighted cigar. “You will be driving over to settle Tom’s estate. When you come back you might feel like stopping off again. If you do, I’ll be waiting to see you.”
She looked at him, looking beyond the coldness, the stillness, seeing the man her brother must have known. “I think I shall. I think I will stop … when I come back.”
Out in the street a man was raking dust over the blood. Back of the barn an old hen cackled, and somewhere a pump began to complain rustily, drawing clear water from a deep, cold well.
No Rest for the Wicked
The bat-wing doors slammed open as if struck by a charging steer and he stood there, framed for an instant in the doorway, a huge man with a golden beard. Towering five inches over six feet and weighing no less than two hundred and fifty pounds, he appeared from out of the desert like some suddenly reincarnated primeval giant.
He was dirty, not with the dirt of indigence, but with the dust and grime of travel. He smelled of the trail, and his cheekbones had a desert bronze upon them. As he strode to the bar there was something reckless and arrogant about him that raised the hackles on the back of my neck.
Stopping near me he called for a bottle, and when he had it in his hand he poured three fingers into a water glass and took it neat. He followed with its twin before he paused to look around.
He glanced at the tables where men played cards, and then at the roulette wheel. His eyes rested on the faces of the gamblers, and then at last, they swung around to me. Oh, I knew he was coming to me! He had seen me when he came in, but he saved me for last.
His look measured me and assayed me with a long, deliberately contemptuous glance. For I am a big man, too, and the difference between us was slight.
Yet where he was golden, I was black, and where the heat had reddened his cheekbones, I was deep-browned by sun and wind. We measured each other like two strange mastiffs, and neither of us liked the other.
He looked from my eyes to the star on my chest, and to the gun low-slung on my leg. He grinned then, a slow, insulting grin. “The town clown,” he said.
“Exactly,” I replied, and smiled at him. For I could see it then, knew it was coming, and I could afford to wait. He measured me again when he saw that I did not anger.
He changed suddenly, shrugging, and smiled. “No offense,” he said, and his smile seemed genuine. “I’ve got a loose tongue.” He reached in his pocket and drew out three pieces of ore and rolled them on the bar. “Besides, I feel too good to make trouble for anybody today. I’ve found the Lost Village Diggings.”
His voice had not lifted a note, and yet had he shouted the words he could have received no more attention. Every head turned; men came to their feet; all eyes were on him, all ears listening.
“The Lost Village Diggings!” Old Tom Curtis grabbed the stranger by the arm. “You’ve found ’em? You actually have? Where?”
The big man chuckled. “Didn’t aim to get you folks upset,” he said. “Look for yourself.” He nudged the ore with his fist. “How’s that look?”
Curtis grabbed up the ore. His eyes were hot with excitement. He was almost moaning in his reverence. “Why! Why, it must run three or four thousand dollars to the ton! Look at it!”
The chunks of ore were ribbed with gold, bright and lovely to see, but I spared the gold only a glance. My eyes were on the stranger, and I was waiting.
They crowded around him, shouting their questions, eager to see and to handle the ore. He poured another drink, looked at me, then grinned. He lifted the glass in a silent toast.
Yet I think it bothered him. The rest of them were crazy with gold fever, but I was not. And he didn’t understand it.
The Lost Village Diggings! Stories of lost mines crop up wherever one goes in the Southwest, but this one was even more fantastic than most. In 1609 three Franciscan friars, accompanied by an officer and sixteen soldiers, started north out of Mexico.
Attacked by Apaches, they turned back, and finally were surrounded among rough mountains by the Indians. During the night they attempted to escape and became lost. By daylight they found themselves moving through utterly strange country, and their directions seemed all wrong. All of them felt curiously confused.
Yet they had escaped the Indians. Thankfully, they kept on, getting deeper and deeper into unfamiliar country. On the third day they found themselves in a long canyon through which wound a stream of fresh, clear water. There were wide green meadows, rich soil, and a scattering of trees. Weary of their flight, they gratefully settled down for a rest. And then they found gold.
The result was, instead of going on, they built houses and a church, and remained to mine the rich ore and reduce it to raw gold. Accompanied by one of the Indians who had come with them, for there had been a dozen of these, four soldiers attempted to find a way out to Mexico. All were killed but one, who returned. Attracted by the healing of one of the Franciscans, several Tarahumares came to live among them, and then more. Several of the soldiers took wives from the Indian girls and settled down. Lost to the outside world, the village grew, cultivated fields, and was fairly prosperous. And they continued to mine gold.
Yet a second attempt to get out of the valley also failed, with three men killed. It was only after thirty years had passed that an Indian succeeded. He got through to Mexico and reported the village. Guiding the party on the return trip, he was bitten by a snake and died.
In 1750 two wandering Spanish travelers stumbled upon a faint trail and followed it to the village. It had grown to a tight, neatly arranged settlement of more than one hundred inhabitants. The travelers left, taking several villagers with them, but they likewise were killed by Apaches. Only one man got through, adding his story to the legend of the Lost Village. From that day on it was never heard of again.
“All my life,” Old Tom Curtis said, “I’ve hoped I’d find that Village! Millions! Millions in gold there, all stored and waiting to be took! A rich mine! Maybe several of ’em!”
The big man with the golden beard straightened up. “My name’s Larik Feist,” he said. “I found the Lost Village by accident. I was back in the Sierra Madres, and I wounded a boar. I chased after him, got lost, and just stumbled on her.”
“Folks still there?” Curtis asked eagerly.
“Nobody,” Feist said. “Not a soul. Dead for years, looks like.” He leaned against the bar and added three fingers to his glass. “But I found the mine—two of ’em! I found their arrastra, too!”
“But the gold?” That was Bob Wright, owner of the livery stable. “Did you find the gold?”
“Not yet,” Feist admitted, “but she’s got to be there.”
There was an excited buzz of talk, but I turned away and leaned against the bar. There was nothing I could say, and nobody who would believe me. I knew men with the gold fever; I’d seen others have it. So I waited, knowing what was coming, and thinking about Larik Feist.
“Sure,” Feist said, “I’m goin’ back. Think I’m crazy? Apaches? Never seen a one, but what if I did? No Apache will keep me away from there. But I got to get an outfit.”
“I’ll stake you,” Wright said quickly. “I’ll furnish the horses and mules.”
Men crowded around, tendering suppl
ies, equipment, guns, experience. Feist didn’t accept; he just shook his head. “First thing I need,” he said, “is some rest. I won’t even think about it until morning.”
He straightened up and gathered his samples. Reluctantly, the others drew back. Feist looked over at me. “What’s the matter, Marshal?” he taunted. “No gold fever?”
“Once,” I said, “I had it.”
“He sure did!” Old Tom Curtis chuckled. “Why, he was only a boy, but he sure spent some time down there. Say! He’d be a good man to take along! The marshal sure knows the Sierra Madres!”
Feist had started to move away. Now he stopped. His face had a queer look. “You’ve been there?” he demanded.
“Yes.” I spoke quietly. “I’ve been there.”
THAT WAS THE BEGINNING of it. Larik Feist avoided me, but his plans went forward rapidly. A company was formed with Feist as president, Wright as treasurer, and Dave Neil as vice-president. When I heard that, I walked down to Neil’s house. Marla was out in the yard, picking flowers. “Your dad home?”
She straightened and nodded to me. It seemed she was absentminded—not like she usually was when I came around. I stood there, and I looked myself over in her eyes. A big man with wide, thick shoulders and a chest that stretched in his shirt tight. With a brown, wind-darkened face and green eyes, a shock of black, curly, and usually untrimmed hair, a battered black sombrero, flat crowned, a faded checked shirt, jeans, and boots with run-down heels.
Feist was different. He had the trail dust off him now and a new outfit of clothes, bought on credit. He looked slick and handsome; his hair was trimmed. He was the talk of the town, with all the girls making big eyes at him. They all knew me. They all knew Lou Morgan, who was half-Irish and half-Spanish.
“Yes, Dad’s inside talking to Larik,” she said. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
That hurt? I’d always figured on Marla being my girl. We’d gone dancing together, we’d been riding together, and we’d talked some about the future—when I’d made my stake and owned a ranch.
“Wonderful?” I shook my head. “That doesn’t seem like the right word.”
“Oh, Lou!” She was impatient. “Don’t be like that! Here Larik comes to town and offers us all a chance to be rich, and you stand around—they all told me how you acted—just like … like … like you were jealous of him!”
“Why should I be jealous?” I asked.
Her eyes chilled a little. “Oh? You don’t think I’m worth being jealous over?”
That made me look at her again. “Oh! So you’re in this, too? It’s not only all the town’s money he wants, but you, too.”
“You’ve no right to talk that way! I like Larik! He’s wonderful! And he’s doing something for us all!”
Right then I couldn’t trust myself to talk. I just walked by her and went into the house. Neil was there, seated at the table with Feist, Wright, Curtis, and John Powers. They all had money on the table, and some sort of legal-looking papers.
“What’s the money for?” I asked, quiet-like.
“We’re buyin’ into Mr. Feist’s mine,” Powers said. “You’d better dig down in that sock of yours and get a piece of this, Lou. We’ll need a good man to protect that gold.” Powers turned to Feist and jerked a head at me. “Lou, here, is about the fastest thing with a gun this side of Dodge.”
Feist looked up at me, his eyes suddenly cold and careful.
Me, I didn’t look at him. “Neil,” I said, “do you mean to tell me you men are all paying good cash for something you’ve never seen? That you’re buyin’ a pig in a poke?”
“Never seen?” Neil said. “What does that matter? We’ve seen the gold, haven’t we? We all know the Lost Village story, and—”
“All you know,” I said, “is an old legend that’s been told around for years. You’re all like a pack of kids taken in by a slick-talking stranger. Feist”—I looked across the table at him—“you’re under arrest. Obtaining money under false pretenses.”
Neil lunged to his feet. His face was flushed with anger. “Lou, what’s the matter? Have you gone crazy?”
All of them were on their feet protesting. Only Larik Feist had not moved, but for the first time he looked worried.
It was Marla who made it worse. “Dad,” she said, “pay no attention to him. Lou’s jealous. He’s made big tracks around here so long he can’t stand for anybody to take the limelight.”
That made me red around the gills because it was so untrue. “You think what you like, but I’m taking Feist now.”
Feist looked at me, a long measuring look from those cold, careful eyes. He had it in his mind.
“Don’t go for that gun,” I said quietly. “I want you tried in a court of law, not dead on this floor.”
Powers put a hand on Feist’s arm. “Go along with him,” he said. “And don’t worry. We’ll take care of you. Far as that goes, we can call a meeting and throw him out of office.”
“I’m arresting Feist,” I said patiently. “You do whatever you want.”
“On what evidence?” Neil demanded.
“I’ll present the evidence when it’s needed,” I said. “Take my word for it, I’ve evidence for a conviction. This man has never been to Lost Village. He didn’t get his gold there. And there’s no gold there, anyway, but a little placer stuff.”
Whether they heard me or not, I don’t know. They were all around me, yelling at me, shaking their fingers in my face. And they were all mad. Neil was probably the maddest of all. Marla, when I looked at her, just turned her head away.
Feist got up when I told him to, and walked out ahead of me. “I might have expected this,” he said. “But you won’t get away with it.”
“Yes, I will. And when they discover what you tried to put over, I’ll have trouble keeping you from getting lynched.”
When he was locked in a cell, I walked back to my desk and sat down.
Ever feel like the whole world was against you? Well, that’s the way I felt then. My girl had turned her back on me. The town’s leading citizens—the men I’d worked for, been friends with and protected—they all hated me. And they could throw me out of office, that was true. All they needed was to get the council together.
It was ten miles to the nearest telegraph, but when the stage went out that night, I had a letter on it.
Up and down the street men were gathered in knots, and when they looked at me they glared and muttered. So I walked back to my office and sat down. Feist was stretched on his cot, and he never moved.
Every night now, for months, Marla Neil had brought me a pot of coffee at eight o’clock. When eight drew near, I began to feel both hungry and miserable. There’d be no Marla tonight, that was something I could bet. And then, there she was, a little cool, but with her coffeepot.
“Marla!” I sat up straight. “Then you—?” I got to my feet. “You’re not mad at me? Believe me, Marla, when you all know the truth, you won’t be. Listen, I can ex—”
She drew back. “Drink your coffee,” she said, “or it will get cold. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She turned and hurried away.
So I sat down, ate a cookie, and then poured out the coffee. It was black and strong, the way I like it … very black, and very strong….
MY MOUTH TASTED FUNNY when I awoke, and I had trouble getting my eyes open. When I got them open I rolled and caught myself just in time. It wasn’t my bed I was in. I was on a jail cot.
My head felt like it weighed a ton, but I lifted it and looked around. I was in a cell. Larik Feist’s cell.
That brought me to my feet with a lurch. I charged the door.
Locked.
Taking that door in my two hands I shook it until the whole door rattled and banged. I shouted, but there was no sound from outside. I swore. Then I looked around. There was a note on the floor.
I picked it up and read:
You wouldn’t listen to us. I hated to do this, but you’d no right to keep the whole town from getting rich just b
ecause of your pigheaded jealousy.
It didn’t need any signature, for by that time I was remembering that the last thing I had done was drink some coffee Marla had brought me.
The door rattled and I yelled, but nobody answered. I went to the window and looked out. Nobody was stirring, but I knew all those who lived in town weren’t gone. They probably had orders to ignore me.
Then I remembered something else. This jail was old and of adobe. I’d been trying for months to get the council to vote the money to make repairs. These bars—As I’ve said, I weigh two hundred and thirty pounds and none of it anything but bone and muscle. I grabbed those bars and bowed my back, but they wouldn’t stir. Yet I knew they weren’t well seated. Then I picked up the cot and smashed it, and taking one of the short iron pieces, I used it as a lever between the bars. That did the trick.
In five minutes I was on the street, then back inside after my guns. This time I belted on two of them, grabbed my Winchester, and ran for the livery stable.
Abel was there, but no Wright. I grabbed Abel. “Which way did they go?” I yelled at him.
“Lou!” he protested, pulling back. “You let go of me. I ain’t done nothing! And you leave those folks alone. We all going to be rich.”
I dropped him, because I remembered something very suddenly. Larik Feist had changed his clothes after he came to town. Had he taken the old ones with him after he got a complete outfit? I made a run for Powers’ store, but it was closed. I put one foot against the doorjamb and took the knob in my hands—It came loose, splintering the jamb.
The clothes were there. A worn, dirty shirt, jeans, boots, and a coat. Right there I sat down and looked them over.
Not that I didn’t know where they were going now. The Sierra Madres were far south of the border, and nobody except a few Indians and Mexicans who live there knew them better than I. What I wanted to know was where Feist had come from, because one thing I knew. He had not come up from Mexico.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7 Page 24