The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7

by Louis L'Amour

  Johnny also knew what only Else seemed to guess, that it was Hazel, Degner’s red-haired singer, who drew Sam Redlin to the Four Star. It was rumored that she was Degner’s woman, and Johnny had said as much to Sam. The younger Redlin had flown into a rage and whirling on Johnny had drawn back his fist. Something in Johnny’s eyes stopped him, and although Sam would never have admitted it, he was suddenly afraid.

  Like Else, Johnny had been adrift when he came to the R Bar. Half dead with pneumonia, he had come up to the door on his black gelding, and the Redlin’s hospitality had given him a bed and the best care the frontier could provide, and when Johnny was well, he went to work to repay them. Then he stayed on for the spring roundup as a forty-a-month hand.

  He volunteered no information, and they asked him no questions. He was slightly built and below medium height, but broad shouldered and wiry. His shock of chestnut hair always needed cutting, and his green eyes held a lurking humor. He moved with deceptive slowness, for he was quick at work, and skillful with his hands. Nor did he wait to be told about things, for even before he began riding he had mended the buckboard, cleaned out and shored up the spring, repaired the door hinges, and cleaned all the guns.

  “We collect from Walters tomorrow,” Redlin said suddenly. “Then I’m goin’ to make a payment on that Sprague place and put Sam on it. With his own place he’ll straighten up and go to work.”

  Johnny stared at his plate, his appetite gone. He knew what that meant, for it had been in Joe Redlin’s mind that Sam should marry Else and settle on that place. Johnny looked up suddenly, and his throat tightened as he looked at her. The gray eyes caught his, searched them for an instant, and then moved away, and Johnny watched the lamplight in her ash blonde hair, turning it to old gold.

  He pushed back from the table and excused himself, going out into the moonlit yard. He lived in a room he had built into a corner of the barn. They had objected at first, wanting him to stay at the house, but he could not bear being close to Else, and then he had the lonely man’s feeling for seclusion. Actually, it had other advantages, for it kept him near his horse, and he never knew when he might want to ride on.

  That black gelding and his new .44 Winchester had been the only incongruous notes in his getup when he arrived at the R Bar, for he had hidden his guns and his best clothes in a cave up the mountain, riding down to the ranch in shabby range clothes with only the .44 Winchester for safety.

  He had watched the ranch for several hours despite his illness before venturing down to the door. It paid to be careful, and there were men about who might know him.

  Later, when securely in his own room, he had returned to his cache and dug out the guns and brought his outfit down to the ranch. Yet nobody had ever seen him with guns on, nor would they, if he was lucky.

  The gelding turned its head and nickered at him, rolling its eyes at him. Johnny walked into the stall and stood there, one hand on the horse’s neck. “Little bit longer, boy, then we’ll go. You sit tight now.”

  There was another reason why he should leave now, for he had learned from Sam that Flitch was in town. Flitch had been on the Gila during the fight, and he had been a friend of Card Wells, whom Johnny had killed at Picacho. Moreover, Flitch had been in Cimarron a year before that when Johnny, only fifteen then, had evened the score with the men who had killed his father and stolen their outfit. Johnny had gunned two of them down and put the third into the hospital.

  Johnny was already on the range when Sam Redlin rode away the next morning to make his collection. Pa Redlin rode out with Else and found Johnny branding a yearling. Pa waved and rode on, but Else sat on her horse and watched him. “You’re a good hand, Johnny,” she said when he released the calf. “You should have your own outfit.”

  “That’s what I want most,” he admitted. “But I reckon I’ll never have it.”

  “You can if you want it enough. Is it because of what’s behind you?”

  He looked up quickly then. “What do you know of me?”

  “Nothing, Johnny, but what you’ve told us. But once, when I started into the barn for eggs, you had your shirt off and I saw those bullet scars. I know bullet scars because my own father had them. And you’ve never told us anything, which usually means there’s something you aren’t anxious to tell.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He tightened the girth on his saddle. “There ain’t much to tell, though. I come west with my pa, and he was a lunger. I drove the wagon myself after we left Independence. Clean to Cald-well, then on to Santa Fe. We got us a little outfit with what Pa had left, and some mean fellers stole it off us, and they killed Pa.”

  Joe Redlin rode back to join them as Johnny was swinging into the saddle. He turned and glanced down at the valley. “Reckon that range won’t get much use, Johnny,” he said anxiously, “and the stock sure need it. Fair to middlin’ grass, but too far to water.”

  “That draw, now,” Johnny suggested. “I been thinkin’ about that. It would take a sight of work, but a couple of good men with teams and some elbow grease could build them a dam. There’s a sight of water comes down when it rains, enough to last most of the summer if it was dammed. Maybe even the whole year.”

  The three horses started walking toward the draw, and Johnny pointed out what he meant. “A feller over to Mobeetie did that one time,” he said, “and it washed his dam out twice, but the third time she held, and he had him a little lake, all the year around.”

  “That’s a good idea, Johnny.” Redlin studied the setup and then nodded. “A right good idea.”

  “Sam and me could do it,” Johnny suggested, avoiding Pa Redlin’s eyes.

  Pa Redlin said nothing, but both Johnny and Else knew that Sam was not exactly ambitious about extra work. A good hand, Sam was, strong and capable, but he was bigheaded about things and was little inclined to sticking with a job.

  “Reminds me,” Pa said, glancing at the sun. “Sam should be back soon.”

  “He might stop in town,” Else suggested, and was immediately sorry she had said it for she could see the instant worry on Redlin’s face. The idea of Sam Redlin stopping at the Four Star with seven thousand dollars on him was scarcely a pleasant one. Murder had been done there for much, much less. And then Sam was overconfident. He was even cocky.

  “I reckon I’d better ride in and meet him,” Redlin said, genuinely worried now. “Sam’s a good boy, but he sets too much store by himself. He figures he can take care of himself anywhere, but that pack of wolves …” His voice trailed off to silence.

  Johnny turned in his saddle. “Why, I could just as well ride in, Pa,” he said casually. “I ain’t been to town for a spell, and if anything happened, I could lend a hand.”

  Pa Redlin was about to refuse, but Else spoke up quickly. “Let him go, Pa. He could do some things for me, too, and Johnny’s got a way with folks. Chances are he could get Sam back without trouble.”

  That’s right! Johnny’s thoughts were grim. Send me along to save your boy. You don’t care if I get shot, just so’s he’s been saved. Well, all right, I’ll go. When I come back I’ll climb my gelding and light out. Up to Oregon. I never been to Oregon.

  Flitch was in town. His mouth tightened a little, but at that, it would be better than Pa going. Pa always said the wrong thing, being outspoken like. He was a man who spoke his mind, and to speak one’s mind to Flitch or Loss Degner would mean a shooting. It might be he could get Sam out of town all right. If he was drinking it would be hard. Especially if that redhead had her hands on him.

  “You reckon you could handle it?” Pa asked doubtfully.

  “Sure,” Johnny said, his voice a shade hard, “I can handle it. I doubt if Sam’s in any trouble. Later, maybe. All he’d need is somebody to side him.”

  “Well,” Pa was reluctant, “better take your Winchester. My six-gun, too.”

  “You hang on to it. I’ll make out.”

  Johnny turned the gelding and started back toward the ranch, his eyes cold. Seventeen he
might be, but four years on the frontier on your own make pretty much of a man out of you. He didn’t want any more shooting, but he had six men dead on his back trail now, not counting Comanches and Kiowas. Six, and he was seventeen. Next thing, they would be comparing him to the Kid or to Wes Hardin.

  He wanted no gunfighter’s name, only a little spread of his own where he could run a few cows and raise horses, good stock, like some he had seen in East Texas. No range ponies for him, but good blood. That Sprague place now … but that was Sam’s place, or as good as his. Well, why not? Sam was getting Else, and it was little enough he could do for Pa and Ma, to bring Sam home safe.

  He left the gelding at the water trough and walked into the barn. In his room he dug some saddle gear away from a corner and, out of a hiding place in the corner, he took his guns. After a moment’s thought, he took but one of them, leaving the newer pistol, a .44 Russian, behind. He didn’t want to go parading into town with two guns on him, looking like a sure-enough shooter. Besides, with only one gun and the change in him, Flitch might not spot him at all.

  Johnny was at the gate riding out when Else and Pa rode up. Else looked at him, her eyes falling to the gun on his hip. Her face was pale and her eyes large. “Be careful, Johnny. I had to say that because you know how hotheaded Pa is. He’d get killed, and he might get Sam killed.”

  That was true enough, but Johnny was aggrieved. He looked her in the eyes. “Sure, that’s true, but you didn’t think of Sam, now, did you? You were just thinking of Pa.”

  Her lips parted to protest, but then her face seemed to stiffen. “No, Johnny, it wasn’t only Pa I thought of. I did think of Sam. Why shouldn’t I?”

  That was plain enough. Why shouldn’t she? Wasn’t she going to marry him? Wasn’t Sam getting the Sprague place when they got that money back safe?

  He touched his horse lightly with a spur and moved on past her. All right, he would send Sam back to her, if he could. It was time he was moving on, anyway.

  The gelding liked the feel of the trail and moved out fast. Ten miles was all, and he could do that easy enough, and so he did it, and Johnny turned the black horse into the street and stopped before the livery stable, swinging down. Sam’s horse was tied at the Four Star’s hitchrail. The saddlebags were gone.

  Johnny studied the street and then crossed it and walked down along the buildings on the same side as the Four Star. He turned quickly into the door.

  Sam Redlin was sitting at a table with the redhead, the saddlebags on the table before him, and he was drunk. He was very drunk. Johnny’s eyes swept the room. The bartender and Loss Degner were standing together, talking. Neither of them paid any attention to Johnny, for neither knew him. But Flitch did.

  Flitch was standing down the bar with Albie Bower, but none of the old Gila River outfit. Both of them looked up, and Flitch kept looking, never taking his eyes from Johnny. Something bothered him, and maybe it was the one gun.

  Johnny moved over to Sam’s table. They had to get out of here fast, before Flitch remembered. “Hi, Sam,” he said. “Just happened to be in town, and Pa said if I saw you, to side you on the way home.”

  Sam stared at him sullenly. “Side me? You?” He snorted his contempt. “I need no man to side me. You can tell Pa I’ll be home later tonight.” He glanced at the redhead. “Much later.”

  “Want I should carry this stuff home for you?” Johnny put his hand on the saddlebags.

  “Leave him be!” Hazel protested angrily. “Can’t you see he don’t want to be bothered? He’s capable of takin’ care of himself, an’ he don’t need no kid for gardeen!”

  “Beat it,” Sam said. “You go on home. I’ll come along later.”

  “Better come now, Sam.” Johnny was getting worried, for Loss Degner had started for the table.

  “Here, you!” Degner was sharp. “Leave that man alone! He’s a friend of mine, and I’ll have no saddle tramp annoying my customers!”

  Johnny turned on him. “I’m no saddle tramp. I ride for his pa. He asked me to ride home with him—now. That’s what I aim to do.”

  As he spoke he was not thinking of Degner, but of Flitch. The gunman was behind him now, and neither Flitch, fast as he was, nor Albie Bower was above shooting a man in the back.

  “I said to beat it.” Sam stared at him drunkenly. “Saddle tramp’s what you are. Folks never should have let you in.”

  “That’s it,” Degner said. “Now get out! He don’t want you nor your company.”

  There was a movement behind him, and he heard Flitch say, “Loss, let me have him. I know this hombre. This is that kid gunfighter, Johnny O’Day, from the Gila.”

  Johnny turned slowly, his green eyes flat and cold. “Hello, Flitch. I heard you were around.” Carefully, he moved away from the table, aware of the startled look on Hazel’s face, the suddenly tight awareness on the face of Loss Degner. “You lookin’ for me, Flitch?” It was a chance he had to take. His best chance now. If shooting started, he might grab the saddlebags and break for the door and then the ranch. They would be through with Sam Redlin once the money was gone.

  “Yeah.” Flitch stared at him, his unshaven face hard with the lines of evil and shadowed by the intent that rode him hard. “I’m lookin’ for you. Always figured you got off easy, made you a fast rep gunnin’ down your betters.”

  Bower had moved up beside him, but Loss Degner had drawn back to one side. Johnny’s eyes never left Flitch. “You in this, Loss?”

  Degner shrugged. “Why should I be? I was no Gila River gunman. This is your quarrel. Finish it between you.”

  “All right, Flitch,” Johnny said. “You want it. I’m givin’ you your chance to start the play.”

  The stillness of a hot midafternoon lay on the Four Star. A fly buzzed against the dusty, cobwebbed back window. Somewhere in the street a horse stamped restlessly, and a distant pump creaked. Flitch stared at him, his little eyes hard and bright. His sweat-stained shirt was torn at the shoulder, and there was dust ingrained in the pores of his face.

  His hands dropped in a flashing draw, but he had only cleared leather when Johnny’s first bullet hit him, puncturing the Bull Durham tag that hung from his shirt pocket. The second shot cut the edge of it, and the third, fourth, and fifth slammed Albie Bower back, knocking him back step by step, but Albie’s gun was hammering, and it took the sixth shot to put him down.

  Johnny stood over them, staring down at their bodies, and then he turned to face Loss Degner.

  Degner was smiling, and he held a gun in his hand from which a thin tendril of smoke lifted. Startled, Johnny’s eyes flickered to Sam Redlin.

  Sam lay across the saddlebags, blood trickling from his temples. He had been shot through the head by Degner under cover of the gun battle, murdered without a chance.

  Johnny O’Day’s eyes lifted to Loss Degner’s. The saloonkeeper was still smiling. “Yes, he’s dead, and I’ve killed him. He had it coming, the fool! Thinking we cared to listen to his bragging! All we wanted was that money, and now we’ve got it. Me—Hazel and I! We’ve got it.”

  “Not yet.” Johnny’s lips were stiff and his heart was cold. He was thinking of Pa, Ma, and Else. “I’m still there.”

  “You?” Degner laughed. “With an empty gun? I counted your shots, boy. Even Johnny O’Day is cold turkey with an empty gun. Six shots—two for Flitch, and beautiful shooting, too, but four shots for Albie, who was moving and shooting, not so easy a target. But now I’ve got you. With you dead, I’ll just say Sam came here without any money, that he got shot during the fight. Sound good to you?”

  Johnny still faced him, his gun in his hand. “Not bad,” he said, “but you still have me here, Loss. And this gun ain’t empty!”

  Degner’s face tightened and then relaxed. “Not empty? I counted the shots, kid, so don’t try bluffing me. Now I’m killing you.” He tilted his gun toward Johnny O’Day, and Johnny fired once, twice … a third time. As each bullet hit him, Loss Degner jerked and twisted, but the shock of the
wounds, and death wounds they were, was nothing to the shock of the bullets from that empty gun.

  He sagged against the bar and then slipped floorward. Johnny moved in on him. “You can hear me, Loss?” The killer’s eyes lifted to his. “This ain’t a six-shooter. It’s a Walch twelve-shot Navy gun, thirty-six caliber. She’s right handy, Loss, and it only goes to show you shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  Hazel sat at the table, staring at the dying Degner. “You better go to him, Red,” Johnny said quietly. “He’s only got a minute.”

  She stared at him as he picked up the saddlebags and backed to the door.

  Russell, the storekeeper, was on the steps with a half dozen others, none of whom he knew. “Degner killed Sam Redlin,” he said. “Take care of Sam, will you?”

  At Russell’s nod, Johnny swung to the saddle and turned the gelding toward home.

  He wouldn’t leave now. He couldn’t leave now. They would be all alone there, without Sam. Besides, Pa was going to need help on that dam. “Boy,” he touched the gelding’s neck, “I reckon we got to stick around for a while.”

  The Man from Battle Flat

  At half-past four Krag Moran rode in from the canyon trail, and within ten minutes half the town knew that Ryerson’s top gunhand was sitting in front of the Palace. Nobody needed to ask why he was there. It was to be a showdown between Ryerson and the Squaw Creek nesters, and the showdown was to begin with Bush Leason.

  The Squaw Creek matter had divided the town, yet there was no division where Bush Leason was concerned. The big nester had brought his trouble on himself and if he got what was coming to him nobody would be sorry. That he had killed five or six men was a known fact.

  Krag Moran was a lean, wide-shouldered young man with smoky eyes and a still, Indian-dark face. Some said he had been a Texas Ranger, but all the town knew about him for sure was that he had got back some of Ryerson’s horses that had been run off. How he would stack up against a sure-thing killer like Bush Leason was anybody’s guess.