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

by Louis L'Amour

  The rider of the yellow horse with the black tail and mane rode up the empty street. Here and there tumbleweeds had lodged. Sand had drifted like drifts of snow, doors hung on sagging hinges, creaking dismally in the wind. At one side of The Waterhole the runoff from the roof had worn a deep gully.

  A spot of white at the corner of a building caught his eyes. It was a human skull, white and bleached. Grimly, he studied it. “More than likely he was one of my uncles,” he said aloud.

  He swung down in front of The Waterhole and tied the buckskin to the old hitching rail. His boots had a hollow, lonesome sound on the boardwalk. He opened the door and walked in.

  Dust and cobwebs hung over everything. The chairs and tables remained much as they must have been when the fight ended. A few poker chips were scattered about, an empty bottle stood on a table, another on the bar beside a tipped-over shot glass. Propped against the bar was a skeleton, rifle beside it, gun belt still hanging to the lank white bones. One foot was missing.

  Slowly the man uncovered his head. “Well, Pa, you died hard, but you died game.”

  Outside he went to where the spring was, the reason why old Jack Horn had stopped in the first place. Crystal-clear water still ran from the rocks and trickled into a natural basin, then trickled off down through the rocks and into the wash, where it lost itself in a small cluster of cottonwoods and willows.

  He filled his canteen first, as any sensible man would, then he drank, and, removing the bloody bandage, carefully bathed his head where a bullet had cut a furrow. Then, still more carefully, he washed his hair.

  He led the buckskin to water, then picketed him on a small patch of grass he remembered from the days when he had played there as a youngster.

  Inside the saloon he found dishes, washed them, and, working at the fireplace, prepared a rough meal.

  He was digging a grave for his father’s bones when he heard a faint sound, then another. His gun slid easily into his hand and he waited, listening to the slow steps, shambling, hesitant. Then a long gray head appeared around the corner.

  Matt Ben holstered his gun, then he climbed out of the grave and held out his hand to the burro. “Hi, Zeke! Come here!”

  At the sound of the familiar name the burro’s head lifted, and the scent of this man apparently touched a chord of memory, but still he hesitated. Matt Ben called again and again, and slowly the old burro walked toward him.

  “It’s all right, Zeke. It’s just a Jackson, come home at last. I’m glad you waited.”

  Three days later Pierce Bowman walked into the sheriff’s office in Webb City. “Wire for you, Star. Looks like you were right. Matt Ben’s on his way home.”

  “He’s already here,” Redman commented dryly. “Tim Beagin came by there day before yesterday. Saw smoke in The Waterhole’s chimney.

  “I didn’t plan to bother him. Seems sort of natural, havin’ a Jackson out there, but this here wire changes matters. I got to go get him.”

  “You takin’ a posse?”

  “No. Just me. If he’s a Jackson we’d never get nigh him. Them Jacksons always could smell a posse ten mile off.”

  “What do they want him for?”

  “Sheriff over at Carson tried to take him and he wouldn’t go, said he was just ridin’ through. The sheriff made a mistake then. He reached for his gun, and Matt Ben put him out of commission.”

  “Jacksons always could shoot. How d’ you figure to take him, Star?”

  “Darned if I know. I think I’ll just go talk to him.” He paused. “You know something, Bowman? Nobody ever did try just talkin’ to a Jackson. They always went for them with guns and ropes. Maybe somebody should have tried talkin’ a long time ago.”

  Star Redman took the trail to Horntown carrying no pleasant thoughts. He had no desire, at his age, to shoot it out with a Horntown Jackson. Once, when he was younger, he might have felt otherwise, but time had tempered his courage with wisdom. The Jacksons, like himself, had been products of their times, but not really bad men. They never killed except when firing at an equal in open combat.

  There had been, he remembered, a certain something on their side. His job was to arrest young Matt Ben, and of course that was what he must do. This young Jackson might be different, but again he might not. The Jackson blood was strong.

  He remembered very well the time the shooting ended at Horntown. “I think he’s dead,” somebody commented. “Shouldn’t we go in and find out?”

  An old-timer in the posse looked around. “You want to go in, you go. Me, I wouldn’t go in if you offered me your ranch!”

  Star Redman knew the hills. He believed he knew them better than young Matt Ben, and in his knowledge he saw his chance—to get close without arousing suspicion. He glanced skyward. “Smells like snow,” he said to himself. “Time for it, too.”

  Young Matt Ben was thinking the same thing. He began gathering wood and scrap lumber, which he piled alongside The Waterhole. He began making repairs in the room he expected to use, and also in the stable where he could keep the buckskin.

  In the lower meadow, just beyond the willows, he found a fine stand of hay, and began mowing it with a scythe he sharpened in the blacksmith shop. It was time for snow to fall, and if he expected to winter at Horntown he had best be ready for it.

  He enjoyed working with his hands. He repaired the door, making it a tight fit. He found the old livery stable had almost fallen in, and rescued some good-sized timbers for burning. His father’s house was down the street, and there was a good stack of wood there, enough for a winter.

  He avoided the thought of food. He had enough for three or four days, with care. He worked from dawn until dark mowing hay, and the sun would cure it. Yet he would have to get it in before snow fell.

  Here and there he found where passersby had camped. Prospectors or sheepmen, perhaps some drifting cowhand.

  Old Zeke hung around, wary, but liking the company. Several times he tried to entice the old burro to come into the stable, but he was too wary, and would have none of it. Finally, by dropping bunches of grass, he got him to go inside. He left the door open but Zeke was liking the buckskin’s company.

  “The last of the Jacksons!” he said aloud. “Me and a jackass!”

  He studied the sky grimly. It was surely going to snow.

  Twenty miles north and east was the hideout of Stony Budd. The Budd gang had looted two banks, run off a bunch of fine saddle stock, and holed up over there.

  “Come along, Matt,” Budd suggested, “that’s old Jackson country. We could use you up there.”

  “Not me. I’m through with the outlaw trail. From here out I’m ridin’ a straight trail. If they’ll let me,” he added.

  He meant it, too. There was food, warmth, and security up there with Stony Budd. All he needed to do was to saddle the buckskin and head for the hills.

  To stay here might mean to invite trouble. People would learn a Jackson had returned, and he would have to live down a hard name. Well, it was high time a Jackson did live it down. Old Enoch would have agreed with that. Times had changed. Even old FireHat had told him so.

  He would have had no trouble but for that sheriff in Carson. The man had tried to arrest him without reason. The sheriff, wanting to build a reputation, figured arresting a Horntown Jackson would convince the voters. Matt Ben had been about to go along with it until something in the man’s snaky eyes changed his mind.

  “Tell me what you want me for, and I’ll go. Otherwise I am settin’ right here.”

  “I’m arresting you on suspicion,” the sheriff had said. “Now, cut the palaver and come along.”

  “Suspicion of what?”

  “It don’t make no matter. You come along.”

  Matt Ben hesitated, then surrendered his belt gun. “Now, damn you,” the sheriff said. “Here’s where I kill me a Jackson!”

  He had failed to notice the open button on the front of Matt Ben’s shirt, and when he dropped his hand for his gun, Matt Ben shot him. Then he ret
rieved his own six-shooter, mounted his buckskin, and rode out of town.

  Matt Ben was frying bacon over the fire when he heard a light step. The frying pan was in his left hand, a fork in his right. For an instant, he froze.

  “Don’t try it, son,” Star Redman said. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “Then you’re different from that sheriff back in Carson,” Matt Ben said. “That was just what he planned to do.”

  He glanced at the tall man standing inside the door. He was a lean, rangy man with quizzical gray-blue eyes and a white, drooping mustache.

  “I suppose you’re Star Redman,” he said. “Come up to the fire. The coffee’s hot.”

  Redman, holding his gun steady, stepped over and slid the guns from Jackson’s holsters.

  “Sorry, Jackson. I knew you were here and didn’t plan on botherin’ you until I got word from Carson.”

  “Sit down and we’ll eat. I’m runnin’ shy on grub, but we’ll manage.” He looked up. “FireHat said you were a fair man, Sheriff, and that you were a fighter.”

  Redman sat down opposite Jackson and studied him as he prepared the meal. He was a well-built man, obviously strong, with all the marks of a rider. A glance at his hands showed evidence of hard work.

  “Morning is soon enough to start, isn’t it, Redman?” Matt Ben asked. “This has been a long day.”

  “We’ll start tonight,” Redman said. “I don’t want to spend the night here.” He smiled. “No, I’m not worried about ghosts. It’s snow. There’s a feel of it in the air.”

  “FireHat told me about this country,” Matt Ben said, “and he said Horntown was rightly mine. Is that true?”

  “It is,” Redman admitted. “Enoch proved up on a claim and so did seven of the others. Actually, you own all the water for miles around, and what range you don’t own lies between pieces you do own. I’ve seen it all on a map. Old Enoch was no damn fool.”

  Matt Ben served the bacon and the sourdough bread and refilled their cups. So this was the end of the dream! He had thought to return here, to whip the place into some kind of shape and by hard work to establish himself as a peaceful rancher. If it had not been for that sheriff in Carson—

  There was always Stony Budd.

  A fire quickened within him. Well, why not? He had the name, so he might as well take the game. It was a long way to Webb City, and many things might happen, particularly if it began to snow.

  The old sheriff might be a fighter, but with all his posses he couldn’t crack the Jacksons, and he would not crack this one now.

  He would need a gun.

  Well, he had planned for this, knowing it might happen, although it was trouble with Stony and his crowd that he expected.

  He was not fooling himself about Budd. The outlaw leader wanted him because he was good with a gun, but even more because he was afraid Matt Ben might start operations of his own. Stony Budd had his own reputation. He was rumored to have killed five men in gun battles.

  Matt Ben, expecting trouble, had two guns hidden out. Two on which he could depend. There was a six-shooter hidden under a canvas in the manger where he stabled the buckskin. There was another in the folds of his slicker.

  Outside the wind was picking up. They could hear it growing stronger. It would be a bad night.

  “We’d better get movin’,” Redman said, pushing back his plate.

  Matt Ben got up and began tossing things into his warbag, then turned to pick up his slicker. As he stooped for it Redman spoke.

  “If’n I was to have a hideout gun,” he spoke casually, “I’d be likely to have it hidden in my slicker.”

  Matt Ben straightened, the folded slicker in his hands. After all, Star Redman had killed several of his relatives, and if right now he were to leap to one side and shoot from the slicker he’d have no worse than an even break. Then he realized he did not want to kill the old man. He did not even want to hurt him. And on the trail he would have his chance. A chance to slip away in the storm.

  “Seems you’ve outguessed me, Mr. Redman,” he said, “because I surely do have a gun here.”

  Star took the gun from the open folds of the slicker. His eyes were thoughtful. “You could’ve taken a chance, son. You might have nailed me.”

  He smiled. “Of course, I was ready, but you can never tell. It’s a chancy game, son.”

  Watched by the sheriff, he went into the stable to get the buckskin. When in the stall and momentarily beyond view of Redman, Matt Ben slipped the manger gun into the front of his shirt. He had already donned the slicker as protection from the cold wind, and the gun made no bulge that could be seen through its looseness.

  Straddling the yellow horse he spoke to Zeke. “You stay inside where it’s warm,” he whispered. “I’ll be back or send the sheriff to open up for you when the storm’s gone. I’m still planning to stay here in Horntown with you.”

  At the last minute, worried that the burro might be forgotten and starve, he left the door ajar. He rode out of town, Star Redman following. Once, he looked back. The old gray burro was walking after them into the desert, and into the storm.

  Star Redman stared at the sky, obviously worried. Yet they had been riding for an hour when the first snowflake fell. Then there was another, and suddenly the air was white with them.

  “We’ll keep goin’,” Redman said, “maybe it won’t be so bad.”

  They both knew what it might mean to be caught out in the wastes of the Black Rock in a blizzard, and the snow was falling thickly now. There was little wind, and that was a blessing. They rode on, Matt Ben watching for his chance. If he could get even fifty yards away he could not be seen.

  The horses moved more slowly. Matt Ben glanced back. Their tracks were covered almost as soon as they stepped out of them. The wind was rising. It blew a sudden gust, almost sucking the air from his lungs.

  “Gettin’ mighty bad!” Redman shouted.

  Matt Ben was almost imperceptibly widening the gap between them. Just a little more and he would be completely obscured by falling snow.

  He let the yellow horse find his way into a deep gully. Here the snow had drifted, and he let the buckskin pick his way with care down the steep side of the ravine. A misstep here and a horse could break a leg.

  Glancing around, he instantly went into action. The sheriff was still out of sight beyond the lip of the ravine. Turning the yellow horse, he touched spurs to him and raced away up the ravine. After a momentary spurt he let the yellow horse take his own speed. Behind him he heard a shout, then another.

  Matt Ben Jackson rode on. He reined the buckskin to a stop, listening. There was no sound but the wind, and his trail was already blotting out. He was free again.

  When he had ridden another mile he found a place where he could climb the horse out of the ravine. The minute his head cleared the top he felt a blast of icy wind which struck him like a blow. They had been drifting ahead of the wind when going toward Webb City; now he must face it.

  Horntown was the safest place now. There was fuel and there was shelter from the wind and snow. He could last out the storm, then head for Stony Budd’s and then up to Wyoming.

  The snow was falling heavier now, the wind rising. It was to be a bad storm. He turned the yellow horse toward the trail down which they had come; some of the route had been sheltered from the worst of the wind. He doubted the old sheriff would attempt a return in this storm. He would wait until it was over, and then come with a posse. Matt Ben knew his escape had been the merest fluke.

  He cut their trail near a rocky shoulder which offered some protection from the wind, and dismounted to rest the buckskin. Then he saw their tracks. Here, sheltered from the wind, they had neither filled with snow nor blown away. And there, over the tracks of his horse and that of the sheriff, were the unmistakable hoofprints of the old gray burro. It was strange the storm had not turned it back.

  Matt Ben stared at the tracks, swearing under his breath. From where he now stood it was at least forty-five miles
to Webb City, and that old gray burro, the last survivor of Horntown, would never make it.

  He would die out here on the snow-covered desert. The tracks indicated the old burro was lagging far behind, as the horse tracks had begun to fill before the sharper burro tracks were made.

  “Matt Ben,” he told himself disgustedly, “you’re a fool for what you’re thinking.” Yet even as he said it he knew he was going back after the old burro. He was going to get Zeke and take him back to Horntown. It wouldn’t be right to let the old fellow die out there alone. Around the town, with shelter, he might live several years.

  He mounted again and turned the buckskin back on the trail. It was somewhat sheltered in places, and occasional tracks remained. Several times he had to stop, judging the wind. He hoped it was holding to the north. It was a full hour later when he found the ravine where he had lost the sheriff.

  Reining in, he took his six-gun from his shirt and thrust it behind his belt under the slicker. Then he felt his way down the steep trail.

  When he reached the bottom Zeke was standing not a half dozen yards away. Nearby, propped against the rock wall was Star Redman. His head was slumped on his chest and near him was a small pile of sticks beginning to be covered with snow. His horse stood a few feet to one side.

  “What the devil?” Matt Ben scowled. For a moment he stood in the slowly falling snow and simply stared, filled with a great exasperation.

  Zeke saw him first and lifted his head, ears canted forward. “It’s all right, Zeke. Everything’s all right.”

  Bending over the sheriff, he put a hand on his shoulder. Redman stirred, wincing sharply. Matt Ben looked down. Even under the snow he could see an odd twist to Redman’s leg.

  “What happened?”

  “Hoss slipped comin’ into the ravine. Fell with me, an’ busted my leg. Guess I must’ve passed out as I was tryin’ to build a fire.” He looked up. “I yelled at you, but I guess you didn’t hear.”

  Matt Ben straightened up, swearing mentally. He walked over to the sheriff’s horse. The horse was sound. He led it over to Redman.