The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3

by Louis L'Amour

  “You boys better settle down,” Sherman said, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Any shooting that’s done in my outfit will be done by me.”

  He looked up at Clyde, and there was something very much like triumph in his eyes. “You’re getting slow, Morg,” Sherman said. “I could have killed you before you got your gun out.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sherman shrugged. “You go see this Hallam, Clyde. I want him killed, see? An’ the house burned. What happens to his wife is no business of yours. I got other plans.” He grinned, revealing broken teeth. “Yeah, I got other plans for her.”

  Clyde spun on his heel and walked outside. He was just about to swing into the saddle when Tom Cool drifted up. Cool spoke low and out the corner of his mouth. “Did you see that, Morg? Did you see the way he got that gun into action? That gent’s poison. Why’s he been keepin’ that from us? Somethin’ around here smells to high heaven.”

  He took his belt up a notch. “Morg, let’s move in on him together. Let’s take this over. There’s goin’ to be a fortune out there in that valley. You got a head on you. You take care of the business, an’ I’ll handle the rough stuff. Let’s take Sherman out of there. He’s framin’ to queer both of us.”

  Morgan Clyde swung into the saddle. “No sale, Tom,” he said quietly. “Riding our trail, we ride alone. Anyway, I’m not the type to sell out or double-deal. When I’m through with Sherman I’ll tell him so to his face.”

  “He’ll kill you!”

  Clyde smiled wearily. “Maybe.”

  He turned his horse and rode away. So Sherman was a gunman.

  Tom Cool was right, there was something very wrong about that. The man hired his fighting done, rarely carried a weapon, and no one had ever suspected he might be fast. That was a powerful weapon in the hands of a double-crosser. A man who was lightning with a gun and unsuspected—

  After all, where did he and Cool stand? Sherman owed him ten thousand dollars for dirty work done, for cattle run off, for forcing men to leave, for a couple of shootings. Tom Cool was in the same position. Now, with Hallam out of the way and the nesters gone, he would no longer need either Cool or himself.

  Suddenly, Morgan Clyde remembered Sherman’s broken teeth, his sly smile, his insinuating manner when he spoke of Hallam’s wife. Oddly, for the first time, he began to see himself in a clear light. A hired gun for a man with the instincts of a rat! It wasn’t a nice thought. He shook himself angrily, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.

  Vic Hallam was young, and he was green. He was, they said, a fine shot with a rifle, and a fair man with a gun when he got it out, but by western standards he was pitifully slow. He was about twenty-six, his wife a mere girl of nineteen, and pretty. Despite his youth, Hallam was out-spoken. He had led the resistance against Sherman, and had sworn to stay in Red Basin as long as he wished. He had every legal right to the land, and Sherman had none.

  But Morgan Clyde had long ago shelved any regard for the law. The man with the fastest gun was the law along the frontier, and so far he had been fastest. If Sherman wanted the Red Basin, he’d get it. If it was over Hallam’s dead body, then that’s how it would be.

  He had never backed out on a job yet, and never would. Hallam would be taken care of.

  Morgan rode at a rapid trot, knowing very well what he had to do. Hallam was a man of a fiery temper, and it would be easy to goad him into grabbing for a gun.

  Clyde shook his head, striving to clear it of upsetting thoughts. With the ten thousand he had coming, he could go away. He could find a new country, buy a ranch, and live quietly somewhere beyond the reach of his reputation. Yet even as he told himself that, he knew it was not true. A few years ago he might have done just that, but now it was too late. Wherever he went there would be smoking guns, split seconds of blasting fire and the thunder of shooting. And wherever he went he would be pointed out as a killer.

  The heat waves danced along the valley floor, and he reined in his horse, moving at a walk. In his mind he seemed to be back again in the house he had built with Diana, and he remembered how they had talked of having the clock.

  Then he was riding around the cluster of rocks and into the ranch-yard at Red Basin. Sitting warily, with his hands loose and ready, he rode toward the house. A young woman came to the door and threw out some water. When she looked up, she saw him.

  He was close enough then, and her face went deathly pale. Her eyes widened a little. Something inside of him shrank. He knew she recognized him.

  “What—what do you want?” she asked.

  He looked down at her wide eyes. She was pretty, he decided.

  “I wanted to see Mr. Hallam, ma’am.”

  She hesitated. “Won’t you get down and sit on the porch? He’s gone out now, but he’ll be back soon. He—he saw some antelope over by the Rim Rocks.”

  Antelope! Morgan Clyde stiffened a little, then relaxed. He had hard work to make believe this was real. The girl—why, she was almost the size of Diana and almost, he admitted, as pretty. And the house—there was the wash bench, the homemade furniture, just like their own place. And now Hallam was after antelope.

  It was all the same, even the rifle in the corner.… Something in him leaped. The rifle! A moment ago it had stood in the corner, and now it was gone! Instinctively, he threw himself from his chair—a split second before the shot blasted past his head.

  Catlike, he came to his feet. He had twisted the rifle from the girl’s hands before she could shoot again. Coolly, he ejected the shells from the rifle and dropped them on the table. He looked at the girl, smiling with an odd light of respect in his eyes. He noted there wasn’t a sign of fright or tears in hers.

  “Nice try,” he said quietly.

  “You came here to kill my husband,” she said. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a flat statement.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe so.”

  “Why do you want to kill him?” she demanded fiercely. “What did he ever do to you?”

  Morgan Clyde looked at her thoughtfully. “Nothing, of course. But this land is needed by someone else. Perhaps you should move off.”

  “We like it here!” she retorted.

  He looked around. “It’s nice. I like it, too.” He pointed to the corner across the room. “There should be a clock over there, a grandfather’s clock.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “We—we’re going to have one. Someday.”

  He got up and walked over to the newly made shelves and looked at the china. It had blue figures running around the edges, Dutch boys and girls and mills.

  He turned toward the window. “I should think you’d have it open on such a nice morning,” he said. “More air. And I like to see a curtain stir in a light wind. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, but the window sticks. Vic was going to fix it, but he’s been so busy.”

  Morgan Clyde picked up the hammer and drew the strips of molding from around the window, then lifted it out. Resting one corner on the table, he slipped his knife from his pocket and carefully shaved the edges. He tried the window twice before it moved easily. Then he replaced it and nailed the molding back in position. He tried it again, sliding the window up. A light breeze stirred the curtain, and the girl laughed. He turned, smiling gravely.

  The sunlight fell across the rough-hewn floor, and when he raised his eyes, he could see a man riding down the trail.

  Morgan Clyde turned slowly, and looked at the girl. Her eyes widened.

  “No!” she gasped. “Please! Not that!”

  Morgan Clyde didn’t look back. He walked out to the porch and swung into the saddle. He reined the black around and started toward the approaching homesteader.

  Before Hallam could speak, Clyde said, “Bad way to carry your rifle. Never can tell when you might need it!”

  “Clyde!” Hallam exclaimed sharply. “What—”

  “Good morning, Mr. Hallam,” Morgan Clyde said, smiling a little. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
/>
  He touched his heels to the black and rode away at a canter. Behind him, the man stared, frowning.…

  It wasn’t until Clyde was riding down the street of the town that he thought of what was coming. This is it, he said to himself. You knew there would have to be an end to this sort of thing, and this is it.

  The Earle brothers were still in the bar. They looked up at him as he passed, their eyes hard. He stepped to the door of the office and opened it. Sherman was seated at the desk, and Tom Cool was tilted back on his chair against the wall. Nothing, apparently, had changed—except himself.

  “I’m quitting, Sherman,” he said quietly. “You owe me ten thousand dollars. I want it—now.”

  Sherman’s eyes narrowed. “Hallam? What about him?” he demanded.

  Morgan Clyde smiled thinly, with amusement in his eyes. “He’s taken care of. Very nicely, I think.”

  “What’s this nonsense about quitting?” Sherman demanded.

  “That’s it, I’m quitting.”

  “You don’t quit until I’m ready,” Sherman snapped harshly. “I want to know what happened out there.”

  Clyde stepped carelessly to one side so that he could face Tom Cool, too. “Nothing happened,” he said quietly. “They had a nice place there. A nice couple. I envied them, so I decided to let them stay.”

  “You decided?”

  He’s faster than I am, Clyde’s brain told him, even as he moved. He’ll shoot first, anyway, so—

  Morgan Clyde’s gun roared, and the shot caught Tom Cool in the chest, even as the gunman’s weapon started to swing up to shoot him. Clyde felt a bullet fan past his own face, but he shot Cool again before he turned. Something struck him hard in the body, and then in one leg. He went down, then staggered up and emptied his gun into Sherman.

  Sherman’s body sagged, and a slow trickle of blood came from the corner of his mouth.

  Turning, Clyde got to the office door, walking very straight. His brain felt light, even a little giddy. He opened the door precisely and stepped out into the barroom. Across the room, the Earles, staring wide-eyed, jerked out their guns.

  Through the door behind him they could see Sherman’s body sagging in death. They moved as one man. Gritting his teeth, Morgan Clyde triggered his gun. He shot them both.…

  Morgan Clyde almost made it to his horse before he fell, sprawling his length in the dust. Vaguely he heard a roar of horse’s hoofs, and then he felt himself turned over onto his back. Vic Hallam was staring at him.

  Morgan Clyde’s breath came hoarsely. He looked up, remembering. “My place,” he muttered thickly through the blood that frothed his lips. “There’s a clock. Put—put it—in the corner.”

  There was sympathy and a deep understanding in Hallam’s face. “Sure, that’d be fine. When you get well, we’ll move it over together—on condition that you’ll go partners on the homestead.… But why didn’t you wait, man? I’d have come with you.”

  “Partners,” Morgan Clyde said, and it seemed good to be able to smile. “That’d be fine. Just fine.”

  Shandy Takes the Hook

  For three days Shandy Gamble had been lying on his back in the Perigord House awaiting the stranger in the black mustache. Nichols, his name was, and if they were ever going to start cattle buying they had better be moving. The season was already late.

  Shandy Gamble was seventeen years old and tall for his age. In fact, he was tall for any age. Four inches over six feet, he was all feet, hands, and shoulders. With his shirt off you could count every rib in his lean body.

  Perigord was the biggest town Shandy had ever seen. In fact, it was only the third town he had seen in his life. With the cattle buyers in town there was ’most a thousand head of folks, and on the street Shandy felt uncomfortable and mighty crowded. Most of his time he spent down at the horse corrals or lying on his bed waiting for Nichols.

  He had come to town to buy himself a new saddle and bridle. Maybe a new hat and shirt. He was a saving man, Shandy Gamble was, despite his youth. Now he not only was holding his own money but five hundred dollars belonging to Nichols. Had it not been for that he wouldn’t have waited, for by now he was homesick for the KT outfit.

  Nichols was a big, powerful man with a smooth-shaved face and black, prominent eyes. He also had black hair and a black mustache. Shandy had been leaning on the corral gate when Nichols approached him.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” Nichols thrust out a huge hand. “I understand you’re a cattleman?”

  Shandy Gamble blinked. Nobody had ever called him a cattleman before and his chest swelled appreciably. He was a forty-dollar-a-month cowhand, although at the moment he did have five hundred and fifty-two dollars in his pocket.

  Fifty-two dollars was saved from his wages, and the five hundred was half the reward money for nailing two horse thieves back in the cedar country. Shandy had tracked them back there for Deputy Sheriff Holloway, and then when they killed Holloway he got mad and went in after them. He brought one out dead and one so badly mauled he wished he was dead. There was a thousand dollars on their heads and Shandy tried to give it to Mrs. Holloway, but she would accept only half.

  Shandy shifted uneasily on the bed. It was time Nichols got back. The proposition had sounded good, no question about that. “You can’t beat it, Gamble,” Nichols had said. “You know cattle and I’ve the connections in Kansas City and Chicago. We can ride over the country buying cattle, then ship and sell them. A nice profit for both of us.”

  “That would take money, and I ain’t got much,” Shandy had said.

  Nichols eyed him thoughtfully. No use telling the boy he had seen that roll when Shandy paid for his room in advance. “It won’t take much to start.” Nichols scowled as he considered the size of Shandy’s roll. “Say a thousand dollars.”

  “Shucks.” Shandy was regretful. “I ain’t got but five hundred.”

  “Fine!” Nichols clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re partners, then! You put up five hundred and I’ll put up five hundred! We’ll bank that here, and then start buying. I’ve got unlimited credit east of here, and when the thousand is gone, we’ll draw on that. At this stage you’ll be the one doing most of the thinking, so you won’t need to put as much cash into it as I do.”

  “Well—” Shandy was not sure. It sounded like a good deal, and who knew cows better than he did? He had been practically raised with cows. “Maybe it would be a good deal. Old Ed France has a herd nobody’s looked at, nice, fat stock, too.”

  “Good!” Nichols clapped him on the shoulder again. From his pocket he took a long brown envelope and a sheaf of bills. Very carefully he counted off five hundred dollars and stuck it into the envelope. “Now your five hundred.”

  Shandy dug down and hauled out his bills and counted off the five hundred dollars and tucked it into the envelope.

  “Now,” Nichols started to put the envelope in his pocket, “we’ll go to the bank, and—”

  He stopped, then withdrew the envelope. “No, you just keep this on you. We’ll bank it later.”

  Shandy Gamble accepted the fat envelope and stuck it into his shirt. Nichols glanced at his watch, then rubbed his jaw. “Tell you what,” Nichols said, “I’ve got to catch the stage for Holbrook. I’ll be back tomorrow night. You stick around and don’t let this money out of your hands, whatever you do. I’ll see you at the hotel.”

  Shandy watched him go, shrugged, and went back to watching the horses. There was a fine black gelding there. Now, if he was a cattle buyer, he would own that gelding, buy the new saddle and bridle, and some fancy clothes like Jim Finnegan wore, and would he show that outfit back on the KT!

  The wait had dampened his enthusiasm. Truth was, he liked the KT and liked working with the boys. They were a good outfit. He rolled over on the bed and swung his feet to the floor. Reaching for his boots he shoved his big feet into them and stood up.

  To blazes with it! He’d open the envelope, leave the money in the bank for Nichols, and go back to the outfit. He
was no cattle buyer, anyway. He was a cowhand.

  Taking out the brown envelope, he ripped it open. Slowly he turned cold and empty inside, and stood there, his jaw slack, his shock of corn-silk hair hanging over his face. The envelope was stuffed with old newspapers.

  The spring grass faded from green to brown and dust gathered in the trails. Water holes shrank and the dried earth cracked around them and the cattle grew gaunt. It was a hard year on the caprock and that meant work for the hands.

  Shandy Gamble was in the saddle eighteen to twenty hours most days, rounding up strays and pushing them south to the gullies and remaining water holes. When he had returned without his saddle there was a lot of jawing about it, and the boys all poked fun at Shandy, but he grinned widely and took it, letting them believe he had drunk it up or spent it on women.

  Jim Finnegan rode out one day on a gray horse. He was looking the situation over and making estimates on the beef to be had after the fall roundup. Shandy was drifting south with three head of gaunted stock when they met. Gamble drew up and Finnegan joined him. “Howdy, son! Stock looks poor.”

  “Yeah,” Shandy dug for the makings, “we need rain plumb bad.” He rolled his smoke, then asked quietly, “You ever hear of a buyer name of Nichols? Big, black-eyed man?”

  Shandy’s description was accurate and painstaking, the sort of description a man might give who was used to reading sign and who thirty seconds after a glimpse of a horse or cow could describe its every hair and ailment.

  “Nichols? You’ve forgotten the name, son. No, the hombre you describe is Abel Kotch. He’s a card slick an’ confidence man. Brute of a fighter, too. Brags he never saw the man could stand up to him in a fist-fight.”

  “Seen him around?”