Volume 1: Unfinished Manuscripts, Mysterious Stories, and Lost Notes from One of the World's Most Popular Novelists

by Louis L'Amour

  “They spoke to him and he turned around. Now this here is their story, not mine, but they do say Johnny turned into an old, old man. Three days had passed for them, a lifetime for Johnny.

  “He wouldn’t tell them nothing, but he was almighty anxious to get shut of the desert, and believe me, once he got back he never went into the desert again. Wouldn’t go for love or money.

  “Of a night they say he wandered in his dreams, and they’d hear him cry out…scared-like. Sometimes he’d whimper like he was in mortal fear.

  “Sometimes in his sleep he raved about great buildin’s…castles, like. On’y thing we could get clear was that he’d been a prisoner somewhere, held a long time until he broke loose and got away into the desert. He found that ol’ trail again. He took off down that trail runnin’ until he ran smack into somethin’. He fell, an’ when he got up he seen the fire and come on in. Three days for them, sixty years for him. You figure it out.”

  Weaver spoke to his team and the horses leaned into the harness, starting the stage once more. “There’s canyons about here where no man ever walked, and there’s valleys you can find sometimes that are greener than any desert should be, but no Injun lives there, where you’d expect them to be…won’t go near ’em.”

  He paused, spat, and then said, more quietly, “Was I you I’d not git off the stage. That there Twenty Mile Station…there’s been two men vanish from there. Just disappeared complete.

  “An’ don’t you get to thinkin’ all the spooky things happen of a night. There’s things happen by day….

  “Why, there’s a deep canyon back yonder, cuts off into the mountains. Up that canyon maybe ten, twelve mile there’s a place. You cross the creek to go into it…narrow, winding canyon between low hills but with mountains all around…digger pine an’ blue oak…and some of them ghost trees…you know, they’re kind of white an’ misty-lookin’ after their leaves shed. Buckeyes, some call them.

  “There’s a little basin back up that canyon. There’s a couple of springs there, too. I heard some mighty strange stories about that place. Ties in with the canyon I spoke of.”

  Loccard listened with only half his attention. Twenty-six years old and for two years chief mate on the four-mast bark Annandale, he had heard such tales many times before.

  He had once sailed on a vessel unlisted in any port he’d ever come across, and found her a good ship. Good enough, at least. Piracy had more than one method, and with the passing of Blackbeard and Kidd other ways had been attempted. A quick change of name and a coat of paint with some alteration in the rig…who was to say what happened after she left port?

  Nor was he in any position to choose his berth now, any more than when he sailed on the mystery ship.

  He had come up from the seaport town of Wilmington, recently established on the California coast, to look for an old friend in Los Angeles. He was hunting no trouble, a fact that helped him none at all when trouble came. He emerged from the hospital to find his ship had left without him. What money he had carried with him was gone for the doctor and what care he needed while recovering.

  No ships were hiring off the West Coast…a seaman, perhaps, but no mates. After a few weeks of trying he accepted the job no one wanted, to handle the stage station at Twenty Mile.

  —

  Shadows were deep in the canyons when the stage rolled up to the station. Loccard looked at the buildings with interest, crouching dark and forlorn beside the stage trail.

  Duro Weaver tied the lines to the whipstock and climbed back over the tarp-covered luggage. From the back he handed down the sea-chest, a battered carpetbag, and two heavy canvas bags belonging to the company.

  “There’s grub in the bags. I hope you can cook.” Duro straightened up, putting a hand to the small of his back. Jolting over rough, rock-strewn roads was hard on a man’s kidneys. “There’s a well yonder. Water’s good when used reg’lar. Boss will get you some horses up here soon’s he can find a man to drive ’em.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do all right.”

  Weaver looked doubtful. From the boot he took Loccard’s rifle. It was brand, spanking new. “You’re likely to need this. Keep it by you.”

  A worn holster and gun-belt followed. The butt of the gun carried five notches.

  Weaver glanced sharply at Loccard. “Five? I never cottoned to carvin’ notches, but five’s quite a few.”

  “They aren’t mine. They belong to the man I took it off of.”

  Weaver looked at Loccard again. Loccard was at least three inches shorter than his own six feet, and Weaver guessed his weight at one-sixty. “You took that gun off a man who’d killed five men?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. He was shootin’ it at me.”

  Weaver exchanged a glance with Cottonmouth Porter, who had been riding inside the stage. Porter shrugged. The only other man riding passenger besides Cottonmouth was a slender man in a black broadcloth suit. Loccard picked up his sea-chest, shouldered it, then took up his carpetbag and took them to the stage station.

  “I saw it,” the stranger commented, biting the end from his thin cigar. “It was in Los Angeles.”

  “How could anybody miss at that range? It’s unbelievable.”

  “It was Steve Darnell. Loccard was hit, all right, but he just kept coming. He took Darnell’s gun away from him and slapped him silly with it. You never saw such a beating in your life. Then Loccard took his gun, stripped off his gun-belt, and walked to the nearest doctor. He spent the next three weeks in bed.”

  Weaver climbed back to his seat as Loccard walked back to pick up the rest of his gear. “Mr. Loccard, if I were you I’d be sure I had water enough and fuel enough before dark.”

  He held the lines as if reluctant to leave Loccard alone. “No travelers come this way except by stage, and the stages only come by daylight. So, don’t open up for anyone…or anything.”

  His whip cracked like a pistol shot, the horses dug in, and the stage vanished in the pursuing dust. Loccard watched it until it was only a dot in the distance. He glanced then at the mountains, at the looming blackness of them. They revealed nothing, offered nothing, and might conceal much.

  The corral, across the road from the stage station, was empty. Until the horses arrived there was no way out of here but to walk, and he had no intention of walking. Or of leaving, for that matter. He had come to do a job and do a job he would…at least until he had money enough to take him to San Francisco and keep him there until he could get a ship.

  There were three buildings and the corrals. The station itself was of good size, with a peaked roof a story and a half tall and no porch. The side facing the trail had a door and three small windows.

  The barn for the housing of the horses was as sturdily built as the station itself. There was a lean-to back of the corrals for the temporary housing of additional stock. Behind the corral was a low hill.

  Loccard went to the door. It was fastened shut from the outside with a hasp held in place by a whittled stick. Removing the stick, he let the door swing open. It creaked on rusty hinges and inside the air felt heavy, the dead air of a room long closed. For a moment he hesitated on the threshold, for there was something clammy and unclean about the smell.

  With a shrug, he entered. Glass from a shattered bottle littered the floor and the pieces of a broken chair had been brushed to one side. At the end of the room was a bar, a long table with two benches, and one intact chair. On the back-bar were several bottles and a few unwashed glasses. The cash-drawer was empty. Nearby was a scale for weighing gold-dust.

  The fireplace was large, occupied by two half-burned logs.

  In back was a kitchen, which housed a range, a boiler, and a good stack of cut wood. The pots and pans were clean and polished. Wonder of wonders, there were a couple of flatirons.

  On the left of the door where he had entered was a room with an unmade bed, a bed with a wooden frame and leather straps for springs. An old coat and a slicker hung on pegs, and alongside them
a gun-belt and holster. There was a pistol still in the holster.

  All else was dust and cobwebs.

  He glanced again at the gun-belt, frowning. Odd that a man should leave without his gun.

  Returning to the kitchen, he put on water for coffee, brought in his gear, and closed the door. Hesitating a moment, he turned back smiling at himself, and dropped the bar in place.

  Yet he had one more thing to do. He lifted the bar again and taking the former station keeper’s clothing outside, he set fire to it. No telling how many lives were lost.

  With the water on, he puttered about, cleaning up, putting things to rights. He discovered an ax, razor-sharp, and a cross-cut saw. There were several wedges for splitting logs as well as a pick, shovel, and gold-pan.

  Suddenly curious, he checked the pistol. It had been fired not long since…three times. Never liking the presence of unloaded guns, accidents always seeming to happen with guns suspected of being empty, he slipped cartridges into the empty chambers and returned the gun to its holster.

  Outside it was now quite dark. The stars seemed very close because the mountain air was clear. Stepping outside, he walked to the middle of the road, looking both ways. All was dark and still. Suddenly there was a swoosh in the air above him; involuntarily, he ducked. An owl…and a big one.

  Not since childhood had he lived in the mountains, and the mountains he had known were far different from these, for even the trees and flowers of the eastern mountains were different. Since that time he had been at sea, the shallow seas of the Malay archipelago as well as along the China coast and Japan.

  Returning to the station, he rebarred the door, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table. The gun-belt and pistol he had taken from Steve Darnell lay on the table. It was a fine weapon, nicely balanced and easy to the hand. That had been trouble he had not wanted, but Darnell was evidently a known man and considered a dangerous one. Seeing in Jeremy Loccard a stranger and obviously not a western man, he had thought to have some amusement. Darnell had a few drinks under his belt, and in such circumstances, apparently he often became quarrelsome.

  Loccard had not been wearing a gun, as he had much of his life, for the islands and the waters where he’d sailed were infested with pirates, and had been from as far back as records existed.

  Two men had vanished from this place…how?

  Of course, there were men who could not accept solitude. A few days of silence and loneliness were all they could stand and they must get away, no matter how. That could have been it.

  Uneasily, he glanced at the black squares of the windows. Anybody or anything could be out there…or at least that’s what Duro Weaver had suggested.

  What did he mean by anything?

  He went from window to window, checking. Cobwebbed and dirty as they were it was unlikely anything within could be seen from without, beyond the light itself. For the first time he was struck by the smallness of the panes and the strength of the windows themselves.

  A skilled workman, he realized these were not the original doors or windows. The doors were of double thickness and strongly hinged, mounted obviously by someone who wanted stronger, thicker doors.

  Why?

  He tried to recall what Duro Weaver had said about the Indians of the vicinity. Pah-utes, and further east the Mojaves. There were other tribes who lived close about whose names he had forgotten, and a tribe called the Tehachapis who lived in the mountains of the same name. They were rarely seen, but seemed friendly.

  He added fuel to the fire and poured a fresh cup of coffee. Then he opened his sea-chest and got out a pair of black dungarees, a black and white checked shirt, and fresh socks and underwear. He was taking out the shirt when something fell to the floor.

  It was an amulet, a good-luck charm given him by an old priest of some obscure religion of which he knew nothing. Actually, he heard later, it was a coin of Krananda, believed by many to be the oldest coinage of India. On it were several symbols: a Tree of Life, a swastika, and others. He had worn it from the day it was given him but had taken it from his neck while undergoing treatment for his wounds.

  Not one to place faith in luck, either good or bad, he treasured the charm as a memento, not only of the priest and his daughter whom Loccard had helped out of a bad corner, but as a memento of the girl herself.

  She had been a dainty, lovely thing with whom he had no means of communication beyond a few clumsy signs. All he had been able to discover was that they had come from some far land, both as a pilgrimage and in flight from some unnamed danger.

  Yet, superstitious or not, he had emerged reasonably unscathed from a half-dozen brawls and two dozen hand-to-hand fights with pirates as well as the fight with Darnell, all while wearing the charm.

  “What the hell,” he muttered, and slipped the charm over his head. “It never did me any harm.”

  —

  Hours later he was awakened by a faint sound. His fingers closed around the butt of the pistol. Then he lay still…listening.

  He heard it again. Something outside the station, something silent, stealthy, creeping. Gently he eased himself from under the blankets and swung his feet to the floor.

  Very carefully someone was lifting the latch, then pushing against the door. The door itself was heavy, the bar a formidable piece of timber. Nothing happened beyond that first creak. After one push the man or creature desisted.

  Pistol in hand, Loccard edged to the window and peered out. He could, of course, see nothing. Vaguely through the unclean window he could see distant stars and the outline of the barn roof against the sky, and nothing more.

  Yet something or somebody was out there, something that moved very quietly, something that did not wish to be seen, something with intelligence enough not to waste strength on a barred door.

  CHAPTER II

  Loccard waited, straining his ears for the slightest sound; moving silently, he went to each of the other doors and windows, but he could see nothing.

  He was a tough, hardened young man, and as mate on a windjammer he was accustomed to responsibility, and to facing whatever trouble came. On such a ship it was always the chief mate who checked things out first, then reported to the captain, who usually made the decisions.

  Now he was mate and master both, and he considered the situation. He was tempted to go outside and face whatever was there, but if he was wrong about someone trying the latch, and it happened to be a grizzly, he would be in serious trouble. Moreover, at this time he had nothing to protect outside, so there was insufficient reason for taking the risk.

  Moving in the dark, he went to the kitchen. The glow from the coals was faint, so he added fuel, then put on the coffeepot.

  Taking up his watch, he brought it to the grate, where he could check the numerals. It was two-fifteen.

  Restless and curious, he went from window to window, listening. When the coffee was hot he filled a cup and sat down.

  Something had pushed hard against the door, but finding it firm, pushed no more. That argued for an intelligence beyond that of an animal. Yet the push against the door had given him an impression of great weight, and what could have such weight but a grizzly?

  With the coming of daylight he finished the last of the coffee over a few strips of bacon and sourdough bread. As he ate his eyes studied the doors and the windows.

  Whoever had strengthened them had been a cunning workman. He had built strong against whatever might come….Had he known something? Felt some premonition, perhaps? Had he built the windows higher in the walls and the doors to their new strength before or after he began to fear what might be outside?

  Before, quite possibly, or he might not have remained to build them.

  Obviously they had strength enough, for they were unbroken. Despite that, the man was gone.

  It was unlikely Indians had taken him, for they would have looted or burned the station.

  Nevertheless, the man was gone, and another, also.

  Which one had done the b
uilding? He who had first disappeared? Or the man who followed him?

  That they had been taken while outside seemed apparent, which meant that when outside he must be wary at all times.

  When he had finished eating he took up the new rifle, loaded it, and went outside, drawing the door to behind him.

  There were no tracks on the hard-packed clay around the station. He walked to the barn and found twelve stalls, six on either side. There was a small tack room containing some worn harness, a fairly good saddle, and a rawhide lariat of the type used by the vaqueros of California. There was also a pitchfork and a scythe.

  He refilled the water-barrel near the well, carried several buckets of water to the trough in the corral, and while doing so saw the tracks of a deer. There was another track, also, but it was oddly smudged and could not be identified. Yet it was a fresh track.

  Mindful of what he had been told, he carried fresh water into the house, filling two buckets and the boiler. As he moved about he kept the rifle in his left hand, and his eyes strayed from time to time to the surrounding hills. The hills close by were bald, covered only by some close-setting growth that he did not recognize. On the more distant slopes were trees and occasional outcroppings of boulders, worn by wind and blown sand.

  Far overhead a bird soared. Twice he looked at it, brow puckered. It was a large…a very large bird. Perhaps it was a condor, for it was said condors inhabited some of the mountain valleys they had passed coming hence from Los Angeles.

  Finally, he returned to the station, got a broom, and swept out; then, rigging a crude mop, he took water and swabbed the floor as he would a ship’s deck.

  He was a man to whom cleanliness was a habit, developed over long confinement to close quarters at sea and the necessity of setting an example for those who served on the ships with him. He decided what he must do was rig a holystone so he could clean the floors properly.

  Loccard walked to the door to wring out his mop, and was standing there when his nostrils caught a strange, fetid odor, an odd scent that made the hair prickle on the back of his neck.