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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Find me a place to sleep,” Handy said. “I’ll be along in a few days.”

  Handy turned away and walked along to the Star Saloon and ordered a beer. He took a swallow of the beer, then put the glass back on the bar.

  “Too bad about Leeds,” the bartender suggested. He was a lean, loose-mouthed man with straw-colored hair and watery eyes.

  “Too bad about Salter, too. Probably they’ll kill him. That will be hard on his family.”

  “Salter? He’s got no family. At least none that anybody knows of.”

  “What about his woman?”

  “You know about her, huh? From all I hear, Maria won’t do any frettin’. That Maria, she’s a case, Maria is. She sure had ol’ Jake danglin’. He was all worked up over her. Every time he saw her he acted like he’d been kicked in the head.”

  “Maria? Is she over at Cherry Hill?”

  “Cherry Hill? You must be thinkin’ of somebody else. There’s nobody like Maria! They tell me those Spanish are somethin’ special. Never knew one, m’self.”

  Handy finished his beer and strolled outside. Cass Bailey was nowhere in sight, but Handy had no sooner appeared on the boardwalk than a storm descended upon him.

  It was five feet, three inches of storm, and shaped to make disaster inviting. Ann Bailey. Her hair was red, and there was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and what were probably very lovely lips were drawn into a thin line as her boot heels clackity-clacked down the walk toward him.

  “Listen, you! If you’re the one who sold my dad a bill of goods and got him to give up half his ranch—! Why, you no-good fish-eatin’ crow-bait, I’ve a notion to knock your eyes out!”

  “You’ve already done that, ma’am. But what’s the trouble? Don’t you want your money back?”

  “Want it back? Of course I want it back! But you’ve no right to talk my old man into any such deal as that! Besides, what makes you think you can get it back? Unless you’re one of the outlaws who stole it!”

  “Do you live on the ranch?” he asked mildly.

  “Where else would I live? In a gopher hole?”

  “Ain’t no tellin’, ma’am, although if you did, that gopher would feel mighty crowded. Still an’ all, I can see where makin’ my home on the CB might be right nice.”

  He stepped into the street and tightened the cinch on the evil-eyed buckskin who stood at the rail looking unpleasant.

  “Ma’am, I like my eggs over, my bacon not quite crisp, and my coffee black and strong. You just be expectin’ me now!”

  Handy reined the buckskin around and loped away down the street, followed by some language that, while not profane, certainly made profanity unnecessary.

  “Spirit,” he told the buckskin, “that’s what I like!” The buckskin laid back his ears and told himself, “You just wait until the next frosty morning, cowhand, and I’ll show you spirit!”

  Hondo could have doubled for Pagosa, except that the Star Saloon was two doors farther along the street and was called the Remuda, probably because they played so much stud.

  The bartender was fat, round, and pink-cheeked. He was also, by looks and sound, very definitely an Irishman. “I’m not one of the fighting Irish,” he said, “I’m one of the loving Irish, and I like the girls when they’re fair, fat, and forty.”

  “You wouldn’t like Maria, then,” Handy commented. “I hear she’s slim, dark, and twenty.”

  “Don’t you get any ideas, cowboy. Maria’s spoken for. Her time’s taken. Anyway, from a mere sideline observer I’d guess that twenty was a shade closer to thirty. But she’s spoken for.”

  “I heard about Salter,” Handy said.

  The bartender’s smile was tolerant, the smile of one who knows. “That’s what Salter thinks! Maria is Buck Rodd’s girl. She lets Salter hang around because he buys her things, and that’s all it amounts to.

  “Believe me,” the bartender took a quick glance around the empty room and lowered his voice, “if she’s smart she won’t try any funny business with Buck Rodd!”

  “Heard of him,” said Handy, who hadn’t, “and that crowd he runs with.”

  “You’ll be liable to hear more before the day’s over, if you stay in town. Buck rode in last night with that whole crowd, Shorty Hazel, Wing Mathy, Gan Carrero, and some other gent.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Handy said, finishing his beer. “I never heard of Maria. I’ll stick to blondes when I’m in Hondo.”

  The bartender chuckled agreement and Handy went outside, where he found a chair and settled down to doze away what remained of the afternoon.

  “The trouble with folks,” Handy mused, “is they make it hard for themselves. A man leaves more than one kind of a trail. If you can’t find the tracks that shows where he went you can nearly always backtrack him to where he came from. Then it usually comes down to one of them ‘searches la fammy’ deals like that tenderfoot was explainin’ down at El Paso. If you’re huntin’ a man, he said, look for the woman. It makes sense, it surely does.”

  Three horsemen fast-walked their horses to the hitch rail near his own, and swung down. The slim, dark one would probably be Carrero, the one with the short leg would be Wing Mathy, and the one with the hard face and sand-colored hair would be Shorty Hazel.

  Handy built himself a cigarette, innocently unaware of the three. The two guns he wore took their attention, but he did not look around when one of them muttered something to the others.

  Wing Mathy stepped up on the boardwalk. “Hey? Ain’t you from the Live Oak country?”

  “I might be,” Handy said, “but I could be from Powder River or Ruby Hills. So might you, but I ain’t askin’.”

  Mathy smiled. “I ain’t askin’, friend. It’s just that you looked familiar.”

  The three went inside and as the door swung to, Handy heard Wing say, “I’ve seen that gent somewhere. I know I have!”

  Handy looked down at the cigarette. He rarely smoked, and didn’t really want this one. It had been something to keep his fingers busy. He dropped it to the boardwalk, careful it did not go through to the debris below, and rubbed it out with his boot toe.

  He was on the trail of something, but just what he was not sure. Right about now Buck Rodd was probably seeing Maria. At least, he might be.

  Most people, when they went to chasing outlaws, spent too much time wearing horses out. He found it much more simple to follow the trails from a chair, even though he’d spent the largest part of his life in a saddle.

  What had become of Jake Salter? That was the next problem, and just where was the money?

  Jake Salter was out of his skull over Maria, and Maria was Buck Rodd’s girl. Jake Salter, trying to impress her with how big a man he was, might have mentioned carrying all that money. She would surely have told Buck Rodd. There is very little, after all, that is strange about human behavior. All the trails were blazed long, long ago.

  Handy led his horse to the livery stable. Livery stables, he had discovered, were like barber shops. There was always a lot of talk around, and if a man listened he could pick up a good deal. He led the buckskin inside, bought it a night’s keep for two bits, and began giving the surprised horse a rubdown.

  The buckskin was a little uncertain as to the proper reaction to such a procedure. Upon those past occasions when he had been rubbed down it was after a particularly grueling time on the trail, but on this day he had done practically nothing. He was gratified by the rubdown, but felt it would only be in character to bite, kick, or act up somehow. However, even when preoccupied, as he was now, Handy rarely gave him opportunities. The buckskin relaxed, but the idea stayed with him.

  For two days Handy had idled about the livery stable in Pagosa before coming here, so he knew that Salter owned a little spread over on the Seco. The brand was the Lazy S. A few minutes now sufficed to show there was no Lazy S horse in the stable, but he waited, and he listened.

  As night settled down he saddled the buckskin again and strolled outside. The
night was softly dark, the stars hanging so low it seemed a tall man might knock them down with a stick. Handy sat down on a bench against the stable wall. A lazy-fingered player plucked a haphazard tune from a piano in the saloon up the street. Occasionally the player sang a few bars, a plaintive cow country song born some centuries ago on the plains of Andalusia, in far-off Spain. Nothing stirred. Once there was a burst of laughter from the saloon, and occasionally he could hear the click of poker chips.

  Down the street a door opened, letting a shaft of lamplight into the darkness. A big man swaggered out. The door closed, and Handy could hear the jingle of spurs and boot heels on the boardwalk, and then, in the light from over the swinging doors of the Remuda, Handy saw a big man enter. He wore a black hat and a black shirt, and his handlebar mustache was sweeping and black. Buck Rodd.

  Handy arose and rubbed a finger along the stubble of beard. It was no way in which to call on a lady. Still … he walked down the opposite side of the street from the saloon and turned in at the gate from which Rodd had emerged.

  Hesitating to step up on the porch, he walked around to the side, past the rosebushes that grew near the window. He could see the woman inside; no longer a girl, but all woman, Maria looked like someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it.

  Handy Indian-toed it to the back door and tried the canvas-covered outer door. It opened under his hand. It was warmer inside, and the air was close. There was a smell of food, and over it, of coffee.

  He moved toward the lighted door and stopped as Maria framed herself there. Her breath caught, but she made no other sound. “Who are you?” she demanded. Maria, Handy saw, was not easily flustered.

  “A driftin’ cowhand who smelled fresh coffee and thought we might talk a little.”

  “We’ve nothing to talk about. Now rattle your hocks out of here before my man comes back.”

  “You mean Buck … or Salter?”

  The beautiful eyes became less beautiful, but very cold and wary. “You’d better leave while you’re able. If Buck should come back—”

  “Maria,” he said, “you’re a beautiful woman. You’re also a very smart one. By the time they’ve split that money so many ways there won’t be enough left for your trouble. It won’t hardly be enough for a woman like you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Suppose only two of us was splitting it, and one of us wasn’t greedy? I’m the kind of man who makes big money fast, so I’d not need half. I’d be happy with a third. Then I could ride on alone, or if you were so inclined—?”

  There was cold calculation in her eyes now. Beautiful she might be, but Maria was dangerous as a rattler in the blind. Handy felt a little shiver go over him, and knew he could not relax for an instant when with this woman. Did Buck Rodd realize what dynamite he was playing with?

  “How about that coffee, Maria?”

  “I’ll get it,” she said.

  She filled both cups and he watched, while seeming unconcerned.

  “You’re new around here.” Her voice was low, almost friendly. He felt as a wild horse must feel at the soothing voice of a cowhand before he slipped the bit in his mouth.

  “I’ve been new in a lot of places.”

  “Have I heard of you?”

  “Wing Mathy thought he knew me.”

  “Then he will remember. Wing never forgets anybody, or anything.”

  “Maybe we won’t be around then. That’s a lot of money, Maria, and Frisco is a lot of town.”

  “What money are you talking about?”

  “The money I got rooked out of. A few days ago over in Pagosa there was talk of a lot of cattle being sold. Damned poor prices, but these ranchers are all broke, anyway. I heard some talk, so I picked my spot and waited. The trouble was I waited too far up the road.”

  “What happened?” She was feeling him out now, trying him.

  “How should I know? I didn’t see it. However, I had heard about you and Salter. I also knew about you and Buck Rodd, which Salter didn’t know. Fifteen thousand is a lot of money.”

  “You think I’d double-cross Buck Rodd for you?”

  “Not for me, although the difference between what you’d get from Buck and what you’d get from me might make me a lot better-looking.”

  Maria studied him. “If you were shaved you’d be quite a handsome man. Fixed up, you’d look better than Buck Rodd.”

  “See what money does? I’m already looking better. Of course, you don’t need it. I never saw so much woman in one package before. Finding somebody like you in a town like this makes me believe in miracles.”

  “You’d need the miracle if Buck found you here. Or any of his boys. They don’t ask questions, believe me.”

  He smiled. “I know Buck Rodd.”

  “You don’t seem buffaloed by him. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Around here they call me Handy. In some other places they called me Sonora Hack.”

  “Sonora Hack!” She caught her breath. “But you—you were in prison!”

  “Uh-huh. My horse stepped in a badger hole that time. They got me. But as you can see, I’m not in prison now. I served my time.”

  She was silent, refilling his cup. Obviously she was weighing possibilities.

  “Where’s the money, Maria? Whatever we do has to be done now. You tell me where that money is, and within a week we’ll be in Los Angeles on our way to Frisco.”

  “There’s only one way you could do it. You’d have to kill Buck Rodd, and the rest of them, too.”

  “That’s quite a job.”

  He looked down into his cup. Not a half hour ago she had been in Buck’s arms; now she was telling him how to kill him. Or was this a trap?

  She put her hand over his. “Sonora! That’s it! We could split the reward, too! Nobody would guess that I have the money, and if they were gone the case would be closed! They would think the money was buried somewhere in the desert!”

  “Where’s the money, Maria? You tell me where it is and give me that shotgun.”

  She laughed, her eyes dancing. She moved around the table toward him. “Oh, no! You take the shotgun and do your part. When you come back both the money and I will be waiting for you.”

  He swore inwardly. Of course, he had been sure that was the way she would be. He had no intention of using any kind of a gun unless it was forced on him. The money meant a lot to Bailey, to say nothing of the others, and he meant to get it back if he could. As for a piece of Bailey’s ranch, that was a dream and no more than a dream. When Bailey discovered he was Sonora Hack he would have no further use for him. He certainly would not want him as a partner. Yet one thing he had established: Maria either had the money or knew where it was.

  He looked down at her. “Maria, you don’t think I’d trust you, do you? You an’ me, we ride the same trail. We both want money, and a lot of it. You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you, but if we work together we both stand to win.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get the money now. Split in two halves. I’ll take mine, and then you call Buck Rodd and tell him there’s a man in your house. When he comes I’ll be waiting.”

  He could almost feel her thoughts. How could she lose? If she stayed with them her part of the split would be a thousand dollars or less. Go his way and she could keep half, and she could find a way to get his half also.

  If the worst happened, and Hack was killed, there was every chance Buck or some of his men would also be killed. Either way, her share would be larger.

  Suddenly a new thought came to him. “What about Salter? Does he cut into this?”

  She shrugged. “He was a fool! He agreed to run off with the money if somebody took care of Leeds. Wing Mathy and Carrero did that. When Salter got to where he was to meet me, Buck was waiting for him. It was a smooth job.”

  He stared at her from the shadows. Smooth, all right, and deadly, as ruthless and deadly as she herself.

  “Good! Let’s spl
it the money now.”

  An instant she hesitated, then crossing the room she slipped back a portion of the base panel and got out a sack. “There it is, all of it.”

  A hinge creaked behind them and a cool young voice said, “I’ll take that!”

  Ann Bailey!

  Sonora felt a shock of cold go through him. This was the end. Nobody would ever believe he intended to get the money and return it.

  She stepped into the room, her gun held steady. “Oh, you’re contemptible! You promise to get our money back, and then you’re here with this, this awful woman! You were planning to kill all those men! I heard it! I heard every word!”

  Maria’s eyes flashed at him. “I’ll live to see you die, Sonora Hack!”

  “Hack?” Ann’s eyes flashed at him. “You?”

  “That’s right, and, although you’ll never believe it, I intended to get that money back to you. I had first to find out where it was.”

  He could almost feel Maria’s hatred. He saw Ann’s left hand grasp the sack, saw her start backing toward the door. At that instant there was a heavy step on the front porch and a loud voice boomed out, “Maria? Where are you? The boys are comin’ over!”

  Ann stepped out the back door as the voice sounded, and in the startled instant of surprise at the voice, Maria grabbed for the shotgun.

  Sonora hit the back door running; the shotgun bellowed, but he was outside and to the left, wheeling around the house with but one thought, to get out of range of the shotgun. Ann had vanished as if she were a ghost. He vaulted the front fence just as three men stepped down off the boardwalk in front of the saloon. His horse was a block away in the livery stable, saddled, fortunately.

  Once he was on the buckskin … but Ann? What of Ann?

  Behind him Rodd was shouting, and he saw the three outlaws start to run down the street toward him. He dove for an opening between two houses, heard a gun bark behind him, charged around the end of the house, and ran full-tilt into a woodpile and sprawled over it to the ground!

  Scrambling to his feet, his hands stinging with pain from the gravel beyond the woodpile, he grabbed for his guns. He still had them.