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

by Louis L'Amour

  The wind tore at his coat, lashed his face with hard-driven particles. The snow was more than knee deep in the ranch yard as he plodded across it to the wall of the house. He had never been inside and had no idea whether it was advisable … or even how to get in.

  He started around the house, then stopped. Dimly he could see the big barn, and a darker square showed through the white. The big door had been opened! Closed now, but the snow that had been blown against the boards had fallen off as it was moved.

  A stir of sound came from within the old house. Turning swiftly, Beaure ran around to the back. The old slanting cellar door was partly broken, and he lifted it against the weight of snow and went down the steep steps into the cellar.

  Above him the floor creaked. Feeling his way in the unfamiliar darkness, he found the steps and crept up them. Carefully, he tried the door that led into the house. It was unlocked, but stuck tight by dampness.

  “I was warned not to come here.”

  “You’re a liar—who could warn you?”

  “A cowboy … he overheard us through the partition. He had the room next to mine, and he told me this place had been closed for years.”

  “Do you take me for a fool? In the first place, cowhands don’t stay in hotels. When in town they sleep in the livery stable.”

  Beaure could hear sticks breaking. Hugo Naley was making a fire. If he was going to kill her, why was he waiting? And why build a fire at all?

  He shivered, answering his question with his own bitter chill. His fingers were stiff and his face raw from the cold outside. He tried to warm his face in his hands, then realized he would need warm, pliable fingers to handle a gun, and thrust both hands inside his coat.

  “Nobody knows you are alive, Nora, and they haven’t kept a guest register at that hotel for years. Now, if you had stopped at the Metropole, I’d have been in trouble.”

  The breaking of sticks continued. He was stomping on heavier sticks to break them, and Beaure thought he might time his pushing of the door with one of these attempts, but there was no rhythm to them and he was afraid to try.

  “If you got outside you’d just die in the snow,” Naley was saying, “so you’d better be satisfied. You ain’t been treated rough, and I don’t aim to treat you so. Once I get this place all to myself I can have women, all the women I want.… Anyway, you’re too skinny for my taste.”

  Beaure was angered. She was not skinny! Fact was, she was a mighty shapely little filly—willowy, maybe, but not skinny.

  He heard a scrape of a boot and the snap of a clasp knife opening. Nora screamed, and Beaure lunged against the door.

  It gave suddenly under his weight, and he stumbled into the room and fell to his knees. He grabbed at the fastenings of his coat, and hearing the click of a gun hammer he looked up into the round muzzle of Hugo Naley’s pistol.

  “Well … you’re Hatch, ain’t you? What are you doing here?” Without taking his gun off Beaure, Hugo Naley folded his knife closed and stowed it in his pocket.

  Beaure got to his feet very carefully. Nora was unwinding a freshly cut rope that had bound her wrists, her eyes were wide and frightened. He must look almighty foolish, falling into a room that way, and he wasn’t cutting much figure as a rescuer. “Waiting for the Dutchman,” he said. “I was hunting up some wood, figured to build me a fire and warm up until he got here. Reilly sent the Dutchman and me to work cattle out of Smoky Draw before they get buried.”

  Beaure was amazed at himself. The lie made more sense than anything he had done so far, and it had come to his lips very naturally. It was just plausible enough to be true.

  Naley’s pistol was steady. “Reilly told me he was letting most of the Seventy-seven hands go,” he said.

  Beaure had no idea what to do. Saying he had a chance, what was there he could do unless he could get his gun out?

  He would have no chance in a fight with Hugo. Around the Seventy-seven chuck wagon they said Hugo Naley was a mean man in a fight, and Beaure had not fought since that scrap with the mule skinner in Gillette, Wyoming, three years ago. Naley would outweigh him by forty pounds.

  “I’m finishing out the week.” He had expected to do just that, but Reilly let them all go without saying aye, yes, or no. “The Dutchman said he would meet me here.”

  Naming the Dutchman—that was a good thing, too. Dutch Spooner was a tough man, just about the toughest on the Seventy-seven, and no nonsense about him. Beaure had no idea that the Dutchman would side him against anyone, but they had worked together.

  “All right,” Naley said, “we’ll wait for him. I think you’re lying.”

  Nora watched him cautiously from across the room. Obviously, she was thinking about his warning in town and was wondering just what he was up to. That was a question to which Beaure wished he had a better answer.

  “Say,” he asked innocently, “what are you-all doing here, and what was that yelling about?” He casually unbuttoned his jacket as he moved toward the fire, wanting his hands warm. Only Naley outguessed him and sidestepped suddenly, bringing the barrel of his six-shooter down on Beaure’s head. He saw it coming and tried to duck, catching a glancing blow that dropped him to his knees. Before he knew what was happening, Naley put a foot between his shoulders and held him down while he slid his six-shooter out of its holster.

  “That was the meanest thing I ever saw!” Nora Rand’s face was white with anger. “You—you dirty coward!”

  “Shut up,” Hugo Naley said impatiently. “Shut up, Nora, I’ve got thinking to do.”

  Beaure had slumped down by the fire, and feeling the warmth soaking the chill from him, he remained there. He needed to get the stiffness of cold out of his muscles, and he needed time to think. So far he had acted the blundering fool. Through the throbbing pain in his skull, that fact stood out with pitiless clarity.

  “He’s going to kill us,” Nora whispered. “He wants to inherit this ranch from my grandfather, and you’re in it, too.”

  She was right, and the worst of it was there just wasn’t anything anybody could do about it. Nobody knew the girl was here, nobody knew Beaure was. He had been paid off and had told everybody he was leaving, so nobody would be looking for either the girl or himself, and they could drop from sight and nobody the wiser.

  Out of the slit of his eyes he looked up at Hugo Naley and was awed by the man’s size. His face might have been carved from oak.

  Naley was trying to think it out. Beaure knew that Naley placed little faith in the lie about the Dutchman, but it was a likely story because all the range knew the Seventy-seven had lost cattle by their bunching up in narrow draws which filled up with many feet of snow. There was a better chance for them in the wider valleys and canyons where the snow drifted less deep.

  The Dutchman was a notoriously difficult, taciturn man. Hardheaded, opinionated, and obstinately honest, he was a man without humor and without fear. Moreover, it had been rumored that the Dutchman did not like Hugo Naley.

  Beaure wished there was something he could do. Naley was so all-fired big and mean—and he had both guns.

  The wind moaned under the eaves, and Beaure thought of that icy grave in the lean-to. Naley could bury them together, fill in that grave, and scatter straw over it, and come spring nobody would know the difference. Nobody ever went into that old lean-to, anyway.

  The fire was warming him. Beaure thought of that. They were fairly trapped, but so was Naley. No man would be fool enough to try to cut across country in weather like this, and if he stopped by any of the ranches they would be curious as to why he was out. No passersby were likely in this weather, but somehow Naley had to be rid of them both.

  “Suppose you do get rid of me?” Nora asked. “What about Len Mason?”

  Naley shot her a glance out of his ice-blue eyes, but he did not comment. Beaure had a feeling that Naley had his own reasons for not worrying about Mason.

  That livery stable man … He wouldn’t worry about his horse for a day or two, and if the ho
rse showed up without a rider, if Naley simply tied the stirrups up and let it loose, the hostler might curse Beaure out for leaving the horse to find his way back alone, but he probably wouldn’t suspect any foul play.

  Beaure sat up. “I want to see you try that on the Dutchman,” he said. “I just want to see you try.”

  Naley walked to the window and peered out into the blinding snowstorm. Beaure looked at the broad back and studied the idea of jumping him, but realized the floor would creak and Naley would turn and let him have it.

  Yet Naley was worried. Was it the storm? Or was he buying that story about the Dutchman?

  “You’d better call this off, Naley. You kill us and you’ll hang. I saw you and the girl in town today, and others did, too.”

  Naley ignored him, walking restlessly from window to window. Obviously he thought little of any attempt Beaure might make against him. It was the storm that worried him, for the wind was increasing. The cold was also increasing.

  Beaure thought about the fuel situation and understood why Naley was worried. If the storm lasted three days, they would be burning the house itself. There were some deadfalls at the edge of the woods, but finding and cutting them up in this weather would be impossible, even if there was an ax available.

  Beaure studied the situation and liked it none at all. Of course, Naley could break up the old stable out there. Not that there was much wood, except in the lean-to.

  He leaned over and tossed a couple of pieces of broken board on the fire.

  “Looks like the Dutchman should be here,” Beaure commented thoughtfully. “This is the only shelter anywhere around.”

  Naley turned angrily. “Shut your mouth!” He laid a hand on his gun. For an instant Beaure felt a cold that was not from the winter storm. Naley was on a hair trigger in that instant, and prepared to kill him.

  Nora got up.

  The movement distracted Naley and he glanced at her, then swung his eyes quickly back to Beaure, who had remained where he was.

  “It’s going to be a cold night,” Beaure said. “We’d all better be thinking about that.”

  It was at least ten degrees below zero. He thought of the horse out there in the stable. It would be warmer than they were, for it was a tight, well-built old building of adobe, and heavily thatched. Now it was covered with snow and snow had drifted against the walls. The horse would be warm enough.

  The big old house was too high in the ceiling, and the rooms were big and hard to heat.

  The noise was faint … but they all heard it. A faint call in the momentary lull of the wind.

  Naley swore and turned swiftly to the window, peering out into the storm. When he turned from the window, he said, “Somebody’s out there. If it’s that damn Dutchman, I’ll—!”

  Beaure felt a sudden panic. Who could it be? Whoever it was would walk in out of the cold right into Naley’s gun, and Beaure knew suddenly that Naley was through debating; he was primed and ready. A passerby stopping in for shelter might have been the salvation that they were hoping for—after all, how many people did Naley think he was going to kill?—but now Beaure had set him up to think that the toughest hombre in the county was about to come through the door. Whoever it was, really, was about to be shot down without ceremony.

  Unwittingly, Beaure had put the newcomer in a trap. Expecting only shelter, he would walk right into a bullet.

  Naley was facing the door and waiting.

  Beaure felt sick. He should have known that his argument that the Dutchman would work Smoky Draw was a good one. He was just the man who would be given the job; he was that dependable. He glanced at Nora and she was looking at him. He turned his eyes back to Naley. He was going to have to try. He might get killed, but it was the only chance for all of them.

  Naley moved a step toward the door, squaring himself a little for it. Suddenly there was a stamping on the porch outside, as somebody knocked the snow from his boots.

  Naley eared back the gun hammer, and the click was loud in the room. At the same instant, the knob started to turn and Beaure threw himself at Naley.

  The big man turned like a cat, firing as he turned. The hammer was back and the slightest pressure fired the gun—an instant before it was lined up on Beaure Hatch. And then Beaure hit him.

  He hit him in a long dive, his hands grabbing for a hold. Naley clubbed with the gun, and fell back, off balance. Before he could bring the gun down in a line with Beaure, the young cowpuncher jumped, grasping the wrist with both hands and smashing it hard against the wall.

  The gun fell, and both men got up. Naley circled toward the gun and Beaure went into him, taking a smashing blow over the eye. Surprisingly, the blow did not hurt as much as he expected. Beaure swung his own fist and caught Naley at the angle of the jaw. The big man bobbed his head, and Beaure spread his legs wide and cut loose with two roundhouse swings.

  Naley staggered, and then Beaure closed in, taking another punch but landing both fists.

  “All right, Beaure. Let him alone.”

  It was Abram Tebbets, and he was holding a six-shooter on Hugo Naley.

  Beaure backed off, breathing hard and sucking a bloody knuckle.

  Tebbets stepped forward and scooped Naley’s gun from the floor.

  “He’s got my gun under his coat,” Beaure said. Tebbets stepped in, whipped open the coat with his left hand, and took the gun. He was deft, sure, capable.

  “You sure handle that gun like you know how,” Beaure said. Abram Tebbets glanced at him. “I studied law while I was marshal of a cow town,” he said, “and I was six years in the Army, fighting Indians.”

  Beaure walked over to Nora. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “Will you forgive me for all the trouble I’ve caused?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m just glad this all worked out. I was afraid my talking about the Dutchman nearly got Mr. Tebbets killed,” Beaure said. “I was just a-yarning, hoping to worry him.”

  “You did all right,” Nora said.

  “You know, it’s funny you mentioned him,” Tebbets commented. “He broke a leg early this morning and will be laid up for the winter. The Seventy-seven foreman was in town looking for you. If you want it, you have a job.”

  Beaure knelt and added fuel to the fire. It looked like they were going to have to tear down that lean-to, after all.

  “I’ll stay,” he said, glancing around at Nora. “Seems like I’m just getting acquainted.”

  Beaure felt gingerly of his face, where it was puffed from a blow. “Thing that surprises me,” he commented, “Naley didn’t punch near so hard as that mule skinner up in Gillette.”

  There’s Always a Trail

  He sat on a bale of hay against the wall of the livery stable and listened to them talk. He was a lean, leather-skinned man with bleak eyes and a stubble of beard on his jaw. He was a stranger in Pagosa, and showed no desire to get acquainted.

  “It’s an even bet he’s already dead,” Hardin said, “there would be no reason to keep him alive once they had the money.”

  “Dead or alive, it means we’re finished! That was all the money we could beg, borrow, or steal.”

  “Leeds was killed?” Hardin asked. He was a burly man with a hard red face. Now his blue eyes showed worry. “Then he can’t tell us a thing!”

  “That’s just the trouble!” Caughey said. “We haven’t a clue! Salter starts to town from our ranch with our fifteen thousand dollars and Bill Leeds along as bodyguard. Leeds is dead, two shots fired from his gun, and Salter is gone.”

  “It’s a cinch Salter didn’t take our money,” Hardin said, “because he would have shot Leeds down from behind. Salter knew Leeds was good with a gun, and he’d never have taken a chance.”

  “Jake Salter isn’t that sort of man,” Bailey protested. “He’s a good man. Dependable.”

  The stranger in the dusty black hat crossed one knee over the other. “Anybody trailin’ them?” His vo
ice had a harsh, unused sound.

  Hardin glanced around, noticing him for the first time. “There isn’t any trail. Whoever done it just dropped off the edge of the earth. We hunted for a trail. The body of Bill Leeds was lyin’ on the road to town, and that was all there was!”

  “There’s always a trail, but you aren’t going to get your money back if you stand around talkin’ about it. Why not scout around? There’s always some sign left.”

  “Hunt where?” Hunt asked irritably. “A man’s got to have a place to start. There’s no trail, I said!”

  The stranger’s eyes were bored but patient. Slowly, he got to his feet. “If I’d lost that money, I’d go after it.” He turned on his heel and started along the street toward the Star Saloon.

  “Wait a minute! Hold on there!” Cass Bailey said. “Hey! Come back here!”

  The man turned and walked slowly back. The others were looking at Bailey, surprised. “What’s your name, friend?” Bailey asked.

  “There’s places they’ve said I was right handy, so just call me that, Handy.”

  “All right, Handy. You’ve done some talking. You said if that was your money you’d go after it. Well, four thousand of that money happens to be mine, and it represents every head of beef that was fit to sell on the CB range. As of now, half that money is yours, if you can get it. You lost two thousand dollars in the holdup, so now we’ll see whether you’re going to find a trail or not.”

  Handy stuck his thumbs behind his belt. “You said if you lost that money you were through, finished. Is that right?”

  “It ain’t only me,” Bailey said. “We’re all through if we don’t get our money back.”

  “All right, Bailey, I like the way you talk. I’ll accept that two thousand on one consideration. If I get it back it buys me a full partnership in your CB range.”

  Hardin jumped up. “Well, of all the—!”

  Cass Bailey stood, feet apart, hands on his hips, staring at Handy. Obviously, the man was a rider. There was something about his hard assurance that Bailey liked.

  “If you can get that money back, you’ve got yourself a deal.”