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

by Louis L'Amour

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  Voices awakened him in the late afternoon. The buckskin was standing with its ears pricked and he whispered to the horse to prevent it from nickering. The buckskin flicked an attentive ear and relaxed. Tap Talharan sat up and listened.

  His camp in the willows was not fifty yards from the trail, but these men were off the trail and closer.

  “The gun has seen a lot of use.” It was the voice of the redhead. “Who do you think he was?”

  “A drifter…saddle tramp. Just as well to get rid of him.”

  “I don’t think you have,” Red was saying. “Look, Talbot. You took his Winchester and his Colt. I don’t think he would leave without an argument.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “I thought at first he might be one of the Macken Boys.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Johnny Macken was the last of them and he was killed in Texas. The old man’s alone now.”

  “He’s a tough old man.”

  “He was tough.” Talbot was speaking. “Now he’s just old.”

  When they had passed along, Talharan got up and looked at the sky. It was about two hours by the sun until nightfall, so he saddled up. The buckskin had done well by the grass within the small clearing, and now he drank from the stream.

  Talharan had a deep hunger within him, but knew there would be no food for him in the town. If you could call a store, one saloon, a post office, and a stable a town.

  Macken had been the name. An old man named Macken. The name sounded some memory deep within him but he could not place it; however, the name Johnny Macken did mean something. Macken had been a Texas Ranger, killed fighting rustlers the year before, and a good man, by all accounts.

  Talharan took a long drink of the cold water and then got into the saddle. Macken had an outfit, and the chances are it was back behind him…back where he was camping when they came on him first.

  Their pushing him out of the country made no sense unless they were afraid he was going to work for Macken, against whom they must have some sort of plan. If Talharan could find Macken then he might get a real meal and a gun. Looking for him was not smart, but Talharan had never thought of himself as very smart. However, he was stubborn to the point of mild insanity. And he did not like to be pushed. When pushed he was inclined to dig in his heels.

  He circled widely, getting a feel for the lay of the land as he did so.

  Under the late afternoon sky the hills lay tawny with autumn, and through the cresting pines gold fingers of light found their way, but already the valleys were gathering shadow. Tap Talharan rode warily, enjoying the cool of the evening, but realizing he would ride warmer with a filled holster.

  On a far, high slope some cattle grazed and the land lay empty between, and then when he topped out on a new ridge Tap Talharan saw a cluster of shabby buildings lying at the end of a long sweep of a magnificent valley.

  Twice he saw M Bar brands on cows and decided this must be the Macken brand, so he rode on, walking his horse to approach slowly. The sky was painting its clouds for sunset before he rode into the ranch-yard.

  Several horses were in the corral, good stock. The place looked down-at-heel and needing a handyman around, and he went into the yard and hallooed the house.

  “All right,” the old man’s voice came from the open doorway of the barn, “speak your piece, and while you’re talkin’ keep it in mind that this here’s a .56-caliber Spencer.”

  “Mr. Macken”—Talharan drew a foot from the stirrup and hung his knee around the saddle horn—“I’m a wandering man. The last few weeks I’ve come a far piece on mighty low rations, hunting the sun and of no mind to stop where there’ll be snow.

  “Last night I rode all night because I bedded down for a couple of hours’ sleep in the sunshine.

  “Three men came along, a man named Talbot and two others. They kicked me awake, took my rifle and six-shooter, and told me to get out of the country.

  “Mr. Macken, those men have trouble with you. Of its sort and kind I’m not familiar, but I’ve a mind to do something about what they’ve done to me.”

  “You’d be safer to keep riding.”

  “You are right. But I’ve a fat streak of meanness running through me that makes me want to see those men again when I am standing upright with a gun belted on.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “I’m a hungry fool. How’s for some grub?”

  The old man came from the stable with the Spencer in the hollow of his arm. “Nobody ever left this ranch hungry. Come inside.”

  When Macken opened the door, light streamed out, and the kitchen was warm and cheery with the smell of baking, and there were curtains at the windows and a cloth on the table, and then Tap was removing his hat hurriedly, for there was a girl there, too, a girl with sandy hair and green eyes.

  “I am Ruth Macken.” She held out her hand and Talharan took it and looked very foolish. “Sit down,” she continued. “I was just putting supper on the table.”

  Tap looked at her and turned quickly away to the washbasin, where he washed his hands and face, then slicked down his hair.

  “You’re riding the grub line?” she asked.

  Talharan was riding it, all right, when he had a chance, but admitting it to a girl like this was something he could not do. “No, ma’am.” He remembered the six silver dollars. “I can pay.

  “It was the frost that did it, ma’am. When the first frost came to Montana this year it came early, and when the frost comes, I ride. So I threw a hull on my horse and started south.”

  She went about putting supper on the table and when she had seated herself, Macken looked across the table at Talharan. “They’ve been driving cattle at night, driving them across my land, and I would not have it. There were other trips at night, too, times when they rode fast and hard, cutting across to the breaks along the river.”

  “You work the place alone?”

  “There were two hands, but they ran them off.”

  “The sun is brighter down Arizona way, but if you’ll have me until the trouble is over, I’ll abide.”

  He went outside when the meal was over and forked hay to the stock in the corral. There was work to do around the place and he stayed with it until sundown.

  When the red arrows of the sun shot into the high clouds, he saddled up and rode away, and glancing back, saw Ruth Macken watching him, and he thought how pleasant it was to see a woman standing in the doorway, seeing him go. Yet it left an uneasiness on him, and for a moment there was a feeling that Arizona was far away and he had better waste no time.

  Lights were in the windows of the saloon when he rode into town. There was a lantern over the door of the livery stable, and two more inside, hanging from the roof beams. Tap drew up outside the stable and saw the hostler sitting there on the bench. “Where’s Red?” he asked mildly.

  The old man drew on his pipe, it glowed briefly, and after a moment he said, “I’ve seen your kind before, and you belong nowhere. Ride on….There’s country you haven’t seen.”

  Tap Talharan considered that in the slow way he had, and knew the old man was right. This was not his fight. He should look upon his guns as the chance of the trail; they might as easily have been lost fording a stream. He should ride on. It was safer, and there was nothing at issue here.

  He shifted in the saddle, and the words he spoke came unbidden. “You are one hundred percent right, but there’s something else. They began trouble with me, took my guns when I was asleep.”

  “It isn’t reason enough.”

  Talharan remembered the girl in the doorway, and he remembered the quiet way she had, serving the food, and the direct way she looked at him across the table.

  “A man has to stop somewhere,” he said, and walked his horse toward the saloon.

  Behind him he heard the old man say, “He’s alone, but not for long.”

  Tap tied his horse at the hitch rail and felt the emptiness in his stomach that he remembered. It was still possibl
e to get into the saddle and ride on. Yet he mounted the steps, knowing he was not a brave man, and a little curious about what bravery really was, and then he opened the door and went in.

  It wasn’t much of a place. A sheet-iron stove, two tables and some chairs, and a short bar not over eight feet long. Red was sitting at a table and there was a bartender behind the bar. Two men sat quietly at a table nearby and he knew them for small ranchers like Macken.

  Red looked up at him and grinned and Tap walked over to the table where he sat, and Red’s expression changed, a flicker ran through the muscles of his face, and he started to get up. Tap remembered the way they had come on him asleep and he swung a long right that caught Red rising and knocked him back over his chair.

  Red sprawled in the wreckage of the chair and stared up at Tap, and then started to gather himself, and when he was almost ready to get up, Tap kicked him in the solar plexus. Red grabbed at Tap’s leg, too late, retched violently, and then Tap reached down with a big hand and jerked him to his feet. He pushed him away and swung at his face with both hands, and the big fists smashed dully in Red’s features, and the blood started from a broken nose and smashed lips.

  Red pawed at him with weakened hands but Tap slapped them down and, reaching over, took Red’s gun and dropped it into his own holster.

  Coolly, he pushed Red against the bar and hooked a hard right into the man’s stomach, and let him fall.

  “You didn’t give him much chance,” the bartender said mildly.

  “He made his own rules,” Talharan replied, “about daylight this morning.”

  Boots sounded on the steps outside and the door opened. The big man was the first inside and the sallow-faced one followed after.

  Talbot saw Red lying on the floor, struggling to rise, his face bloody. He stopped and he turned partway around and saw Tap Talharan. Red’s pistol was in his hand.

  “I’ve got a gun, Talbot. You can drop your gun-belts, or you can die right here, it don’t make no matter to me.”

  Nobody moved or spoke. A moth fluttered about the coal-oil lamp, and Talbot stood darkly against the light.

  “You’ve got the drop,” Talbot growled. “Give me a break.”

  “Just what you gave me this morning? You drop your belts, both of you. I’m not going to count, I’m just going to start shooting.”

  The other man’s hand went to his belt, and very delicately he unfastened it and let it fall. Talbot hesitated, not liking it, the hot fury showing all through him. Reluctantly then, he unfastened the buckle and let his belt fall.

  Talharan moved them back and gathered the gun-belts. He took the guns and thrust them behind his belt, and coolly, taking his time, he removed the shells from their gun-belts and shoved them into his own pockets.

  “Now put your money on the bar.”

  Talbot started to speak, then stopped. None of the ranchers moved to protest.

  They piled it on the bar, some thirty or forty dollars. Talharan gestured at it. “Pour them each a drink,” he said. “And one for Red. Talbot’s buying.”

  When the glasses were filled, Talharan said, “Now drink it. This one is for luck. Just toss it off.”

  Talbot looked at the whiskey and started to speak, but Tap said quietly, “You booted me in the ribs this morning, Talbot. I could kill you for that, like you threatened to kill me. Now drink up.”

  He sat down then, and when the bartender had filled their glasses again, he had them drink again.

  An hour later they were drunk, and unable to walk straight. The sallow-faced man was the first to pass out, and Red was the second. Talbot lasted another hour, and it was close to midnight when he slumped to a sitting position on the floor.

  Talharan gathered up the change and put it back in Talbot’s pocket. Then he stopped and picked the big man up and carried him outside, the ranchers and the bartender watching. He tied Talbot in his saddle and did the same with each of the others. Then he released the horses and tied the bridle reins to the horn of the saddle on each one. With a hat he slapped each of the horses over the rump…only taking time to slip a Winchester from the scabbard on Red’s horse.

  The three horses clattered off down the trail, their drunken riders bobbling in their saddles.

  Tap Talharan walked back inside. “Sorry to have kept you open,” he said.

  “Worth it,” the bartender said.

  COMMENTS: A careful reader will recognize Ruth Macken’s name. This is not intended to be the same character who is the resourceful widow in the novel Bendigo Shafter. That woman would have been married to a man named Macken, whereas this one seems to be the daughter or daughter-in-law of the man who owns the ranch. This is simply a case of Louis reusing a character name he liked.

  * * *

  THE DARK HOLE

  * * *

  The Beginning of a Crime Story

  CHAPTER I

  There were deer tracks in the dust, and nothing more. Dia was gone.

  He hesitated, looking around into the gathering dusk. She could not have gone far. He called…and his voice echoed, then lost itself lonesomely against the far walls of the canyon.

  It was unlike her to walk away, and she had been tired. She had remained behind to rest while he took an exploratory walk up a branch canyon. He could have been gone no more than ten minutes…or fifteen.

  He called again, and the echoing voice made him cringe inwardly, for this was a place of silence.

  The meadow was shadowed and still with the late evening. There was sunlight upon the mountains, but in this deep hollow it was gone. The parched grass was matted and yellow, offering concealment for nothing larger than a fist.

  He called again and yet again, but there was no answer, no sound, no faint reply.

  He paused before the boulder where he had last seen her. Her tracks were there, where she had walked up and seated herself. He could see where she had shifted her feet several times, but no sign of her leaving.

  Dia, his gentle, fragile Dia…gone!

  But where could she go? He called again, mounting worry giving rein to irritation.

  Then he saw something else. A small, circular spot in the dust, such a spot as is made by the toe when one rises and suddenly turns.

  He lifted his eyes and looked to where hers must have looked. He was staring at a dark finger of woods. A finger of dark trees pointing at the rock on which she had been seated.

  Dia had risen suddenly—something had moved there, something that startled her. But Dia was not easily frightened. Slender, fragile, yes…but with courage.

  What then?

  He walked swiftly, half-fearfully because of what he might find. He was careful to walk wide so as to obliterate no tracks. He paused within the shadow of the trees, straining his eyes to see.

  It was darker here but he could make out fallen trunks, a few boulders….He searched among them but there was nothing, simply nothing at all.

  Dia was gone.

  He called, and his voice lost itself down the empty canyon.

  It was twelve miles to the nearest town. Seven miles to the ranch through whose gate they had come to reach this place. He called again, and yet again, walking beneath the trees. It was dark, yes, but light enough to see her body if it had fallen here.

  Her body.

  His throat tightened.

  Then relief flooded over him. Why, what a fool he was! Knowing it would be too late to go on farther into The Dark Hole, she had simply started back toward the car, knowing he would soon catch up!

  Wheeling about, he started back, disgusted with himself for his foolishness. He set out the way they had come, then began cutting a zigzag trail to find her returning tracks. He was good at reading sign and at times had followed deer for miles….But there were no tracks.

  Only the tracks they had made as they neared the place, that was all.

  He stopped again…and called. His voice echoed down the canyon toward the outer world, and there was no other sound. Somewhere, far off, a nightb
ird called.

  Could she have gone on, up the canyon, deeper into The Dark Hole?

  Perhaps she felt that she moved too slowly for him, and had gone on. She knew his curiosity about this place, and that he would not want to go back when they were so close to seeing the end of it. It was unlike her….He hurried on across the meadow and started up the narrowing canyon again.

  It was darker here, and there were many water-worn boulders, some of them gigantic. He stumbled up, calling again.

  His wife was gone. Dia was gone.

  Suddenly, he knew. He could not find her. She was certainly gone. He must go out to the ranch at once, call for help, get the sheriff out here with a searching party. It was too late and he could cover too little ground alone. She must have gone away, started away. Possibly she was lying in some crevice now, hearing his cries, her own voice lost to weakness.

  No tracks…Now there was a star in the sky. The cliffs had turned to edges of solid black against the pale cloudless gray of the oncoming night. Under the trees where he had searched for Dia there was ominous darkness now. Fear clutched at him.

  “Dia!”

  His voice rang out against the cliffs, echoed down the canyon and up the canyon in twin voices, weakening with increasing distance. “Dia, Dia, Dia…”

  But only his own voice called into the silence, and only his own voice answered, and there was no other sound; there was nothing, not even the wind.

  Magill forced himself to think. He forced his mind to be cold. He ruled out fear and doubt. He fought to abandon emotion. To think.

  She had suggested waiting. After all, he would be gone only a few minutes, and she was tired. When he was exploring he was always overeager and sometimes he forgot that others lacked his enthusiasm and his physical condition. Yet today he had remembered not to hurry, to think of Dia, to take his time.