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

by Louis L'Amour

  He had always insisted that the boys not pull any jobs while they “worked” for him, and while he paid all his men monthly, those on the run had handed back far more than their salaries in private. He also insisted that his hands not spend any of their ill-gotten gain in town or do anything that would indicate who and what they actually were. The kick-backs and free labor he had availed himself of over the years had helped make Blue Hill a profitable enterprise. Poke Dunning took great pride in the ranch. There was just Mailer and that matter of the girl and the confounded deed!

  Salt Creek was a rough-looking town of some three-score buildings of which most were homes and barns. Along the one street of the town, a dozen or more buildings stared at each other, and the express office and Fandango were the biggest buildings in town. The Express, as it was known, was much more than its name implied. It was a general store as well as the post office and office of the justice of the peace, and had a small bar where drinks were sold, mostly to the older men in the community.

  Up the street only two doors was another saloon, this one run by Al Starr, a brother of Sam, and beyond it another store and the livery stable, and beyond that the Fandango. It was ablaze with light when Poke Dunning rode the gray into town, but he stopped at the Express and shoved through the door.

  Aside from Mr. Lisa, the Portuguese proprietor, only three men were in the Express. A couple of oldsters who were dry-farming near town, and the man Dunning sought, a hanger-on known about town as Kansas.

  Kansas was more than a loafer, he was a man of unknown background and capacity. What his life had been in the years before he arrived in Salt Creek, nobody knew. He had a wife, and the two lived in a small cabin on the edge of town. It was nicer inside than most houses, for Kansas seemed to have a knack with tools, and he had even varnished the furniture and there were curtains in the windows and neatness everywhere. Moreover, Kansas had a dozen books, more than the rest of the town combined.

  Yet he was a loafer, a short, heavy man with a round face and somewhat staring eyes who did odd jobs for his money. He smoked a corncob pipe, blinked like an owl, and had a faculty for knowing things or knowing how to find out. He had been in the War Between the States, and someone said he had once worked on a newspaper in the East. His conversation was more varied than customary in Salt Creek, for he knew something more than cows and the range. In fact, he knew a little of everything, and was nearly as old as Dunning himself.

  “Howdy, Kansas!” Dunning said affably. “Have a drink?”

  “Right neighborly of you, Poke! B’lieve I will!” He let the dark-faced Lisa pour his drink, then looked over at Dunning. “We don’t see you much anymore. I guess you leave the business mostly to Mailer.”

  “Some things,” Dunning agreed. It was the truth, of course, that Mailer had been doing the business, yet it nettled him to hear it said. “Any strangers around town?” he asked casually.

  To Kansas, the question was not casual. He could not recall that Poke Markham had ever asked such a question before, and he was aware that the conversation of people will usually follow certain definite patterns. Hence it followed that the remark was anything but casual and that Markham was interested in strangers, or some particular stranger.

  “Not that I know of,” Kansas replied honestly enough. “Not many strangers ever come to Salt Creek. Being off the stage route and miles from the railroad, it doesn’t attract folks. Were you expecting somebody?”

  “No,” Dunning replied, “not exactly.” He steered the conversation down another trail and let it ride along for a while before he opened up with another question. “I expect like ever’ body else you’ve seen that Black Rider they talk about,” he suggested.

  “Can’t say I have,” Kansas replied. So old Markham was forking that bronc, was he? What was on his mind, anyway? There was a point behind these questions, but Kansas could not place it.

  “I’ve got my own ideas about him,” he added, “an’ I’d bet a little money they are true.”

  “What sort of ideas? You know who he is? Why he’s here?” Poke was a little too anxious and it showed in his voice. Kansas needed some extra money and this might be the way to get it.

  “Oh, I’ve been studyin’ on it.”

  The two oldsters had started for the door and Lisa was opening a barrel of flour. Poke Dunning leaned closer to Kansas. “You find out who he is and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “How much is my while worth?” Kansas asked.

  Poke hesitated, then dug into his jeans. “Twenty dollars?”

  It was a talking point, but Kansas decided he might get more. He never accepted a man’s first offer. “Make it fifty,” he said.

  “Too much.” Poke hesitated. “I’ll give you thirty.”

  Kansas sighted through his glass. “All right,” he said, “I’ll find out for you.”

  “What was your hunch?” Dunning wanted to know.

  Kansas hesitated. “You seen this Nita Howard over to the Fandango?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You take a good look. I think she’s Nita Riordan.”

  The name meant nothing to Dunning and he said as much. Kansas turned his head toward Dunning. “Well, Nita Riordan is associated with Kilkenny. He met her down on the border during that wire war in the Live Oak country. Then she was with him over to the Cedars in that ruckus.”

  “Kilkenny …” Dunning’s eyes narrowed as he half spoke, half gasped the word. Now, there was a thought! Why, if he could hire Kilkenny …! When the split came with Mailer, it would pay to have the mysterious gunman on his side.

  He scowled suddenly. “Why would he be here? What would he be doin’ here?”

  Kansas shook his head. “What he’s doing here, I don’t know. But Kilkenny keeps to himself like this Rider does. Moreover, the Howard woman at the Fandango calls her bartender Cain, an’ Cain Brockman was with Kilkenny in that last fuss.”

  Dunning peeled a couple of twenties from a buckskin-wrapped roll of them and slapped them in the man’s hand. “If you can get word to him, I’ll give you another thirty. I want to see him on the quiet, an’ don’t let it get around, you hear?”

  Kansas nodded, and Poke Dunning walked out and stopped on the step.

  Kilkenny! If it were only he! But maybe he wouldn’t take the job; there were stories that Kilkenny’s gun was not for hire. That was sure nonsense, of course; any man’s gun could be hired for enough money, and he had the money. To be rid of Mailer it would be worth plenty.

  Lona was up at daybreak, having scarcely slept a wink. She had followed the Rider’s instructions and tried to recall all she could of the ride on the wagon, but it was little enough. She recalled the town where the fat lady had been so nice to her and where she had given her maple sugar brought out from Michigan in a can. There had been Indians there, and a lot of people. She was sure that town was Santa Fe.

  She waited until the hands were gone and then got a hurried breakfast from Dave Betts. “Rusty?” Betts asked. “Sure, I know where he went. He went south, down to Malpais Arroyo. Mailer sent him down there to roust some stock out of that rough country an’ start it back thisaway.”

  Zusa was ready and eager to go, and Lona let the mare run. She was curious to talk to Gates again, for she was sure now that he knew who the Rider was. Though he seemed young, the Rider had known her father. Maybe Rusty would know.

  She found him by as fine a flow of profanity as she had ever heard. He was down in the brush fighting an old ladino who had Rusty’s rope on his horns but who had plunged into the brush even as the rope snagged him, and at the moment it was a stalemate, with Gates venting his irritation in no uncertain terms.

  “Hi!” she called. “Having trouble?”

  He shoved his hat back on his sweaty forehead and grinned at her. “That goll-durned, ornery critter!” he said. “I got to get him out of here, and the durned fool wants to stay! You just wait, I’ll show him!” Rusty eased his horse sideways and then loosened his rope from the sadd
le horn. Before the steer could back up any farther into the brush, he whipped the rope around the stub of an ancient tree and tied it off. “There!” he said. “We’ll just let him sit for a while.”

  Rusty walked over to her, his eyes curious, but if he had a question, Lona beat him to the draw. “Rusty, who is the Black Rider?”

  Gates wrinkled his nose at the fancy name. “He’ll tell you, ma’am, when he’s ready, and he’s the one to do it.”

  “But how could he have known my father?”

  Rusty looked up quickly. “Ma’am, how he knew your father, I don’t exactly know, only it seems to be your pa helped him when he was a kid and havin’ it tough. I guess your pa talked a good bit about his plans. He only found out a short time ago that your pa was dead an’ that there might be trouble here. Naturally, bein’ the man he is, he had to do somethin’ about it.”

  The sound of a horse made them both look up, and Lona felt herself grow pale as she saw Frank Mailer!

  “Lona!” His voice was hoarse with anger. “What’s goin’ on here? What are you doin’, meetin’ this puncher down here?”

  “I’m talking to him!” she flared. “Why shouldn’t I? He works for me! And it might be a good idea,” she added with spirit, “for you to remember that you work for us, too!”

  Frank Mailer’s face stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “You seem to forget that you are the girl I’m to marry,” he said, in a tone less harsh. “Naturally, I don’t want you around like this.”

  “Well, until we are married,” she said coldly, “it happens to be none of your business! If you’d like to change your mind, you may. In fact, I don’t like your bullying tone and I think I’ve changed my mind!”

  Frank Mailer was furious. He glared, struggling for speech. When he did speak it was to roar at Gates. “Get that steer out of that brush, you blamed farmer! Get it out an’ you get them cows back to the ranch, pronto!”

  Rusty Gates calmly went to work freeing the steer. Lona and Zusa started out of the arroyo. “Wait!” Mailer shouted. “I want to talk to you!”

  She turned in her saddle. “Until you learn how to act like a gentleman, I haven’t got a thing to say!”

  Touching a spur to the mare, she was gone like a streak. Frank stared after her, then swearing bitterly, he reined his horse around and rode away, ignoring Gates.

  CHAPTER 3

  Frank Mailer was in a murderous mood when he returned to Blue Hill. He left his saddled horse to Flynn and went up the steps to the house. Poke Dunning was standing in front of the fireplace when Mailer stormed into the room.

  “Poke!” Frank said. “I’ve had about enough out of that girl! She threw her weight around too much today! Let’s fix that marriage for next week!”

  Dunning was lighting his pipe and he puffed thoughtfully, his eyes on the flame. Here it was, sooner than he wanted it. Well, there was more than one way to stall.

  “What’s the matter? What did she say?”

  “I found her down at Malpais with that new puncher. I told her I didn’t like it and she told me it didn’t matter whether I did or not, that I worked for her! For her!”

  Dunning chuckled. “Well, in a way she’s right!” he said slyly. “This here is her ranch. And you’re the foreman.”

  Mailer’s eyes narrowed vindictively and he felt hot rage burning inside him. There were times when he hated Dunning. He glared at him. “I’m a damn sight more than any foreman!” he flared.

  “Are you?” Dunning looked up under shaggy brows. His hands were on his hips, whether by accident or design, but his eyes were cool and steady.

  Frank Mailer felt everything in him suddenly grow still. He turned on Dunning, and with a shock, he realized something he had been forgetting, that Poke Dunning was a gunman himself, and that he was not, by any means, too old. Right now he looked like a fairly dangerous proposition, and Mailer found that he did not like it, he did not like it one bit. He felt sure he could beat Poke, but he might get a slug in the process, and tomorrow they would be leaving on that job.

  No fight … not now.

  “What’s the matter, Poke? You on the prod?”

  Dunning recognized the change in Mailer’s tone and it puzzled him. He knew the big man too well, yet here, with an even break between them, or almost an even break, for Dunning all but had the butts of his guns in his hands, Mailer was avoiding the issue. It puzzled Dunning, and worried him. He had known Mailer too long not to know the man was a schemer.

  “No, Frank, I’m not,” he said quietly. “Only here lately you’ve been taking in a little too much territory. We have our plans, but we can’t ride into this roughshod. That girl has a mind of her own, and suppose she lights out of here to Salt Creek and raises hell about bein’ forced to marry you? It might stir up some talk, an’ we can’t afford that.

  “You’ve got to play it smart, Frank. You can’t push Lona around; she’s got too much fight in her. Take it easy, win her over. You can’t handle a woman by shouting at her; they need soft talk.”

  There was truth in what Dunning said, and Mailer knew it. He was, he admitted, bullheaded. And he had been taking on a lot of weight around here. Anyway, first things come first, and there was that bank job to be handled. There would be time enough to take care of Dunning when that was off his hands. Geslin and Starr both wanted the money they would get from that job, and if he expected to keep them around, he must keep them busy, give them a chance to make a few dollars.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he agreed. “It’s a shame that Markham had to fix things that way.”

  “He did, though,” Dunning said. “We don’t dare take over until you marry her, then her property is legally yours an’ we can do what we want.”

  “Sure, you’ve explained that,” Mailer agreed grudgingly. He turned toward the door. “By the way, Poke,” he said, in more affable tones, “I’m takin’ some of the boys on a little trip tomorrow. I heard about some cattle and want to look them over. We’ll be gone two days. Flynn and Gates will handle things on this end.”

  Dunning nodded absently. “All right. Good luck on the trip.”

  Outside on the porch, Frank Mailer stared angrily into the darkness. “We’ll need it,” he muttered. “And once I’ve married that girl, you’ll need it!”

  One thing he knew. The time was coming for a showdown. He would wait no longer. That Spanish woman, now … if he were owner of the Blue Hill, she would pay attention to him. She liked him, anyway, but was just stalling. That was always the woman’s way, any woman. The fact that he would be married to Lona would matter but little. He would have things in his hands then, and he would know how to handle matters. Poke Dunning had to die.

  Lance Kilkenny was riding to Salt Creek. Despite his desire to remain unknown, he had missed Nita so much that he could no longer stay away. Also, with his instinct for trouble and his knowledge of the situation in Salt Creek and on the ranch, he knew the lid was about to blow off. It was high time that he appeared on the scene.

  Yet reaching town, he did not ride immediately into the street, but studied it carefully. He could see the lights of the Fandango, and nearer, the lights of Starr’s Saloon and the Express. He rode the buckskin into the street and swung down in front of the Express.

  He stepped up onto the boardwalk, feeling all that tightness he always knew when appearing for the first time in a strange town. His eyes slanted down the street, studying each building with strict attention. Every sense was alert for trouble, for a man who had used a gun as he had would have enemies, and in a strange town one never knew whom one would see.

  The street was empty and still, its darkness alleviated only by the windows of the four or five lighted places in Salt Creek. He turned and opened the door to the Express and walked in.

  Down the left-hand side was a row of boxes and sacks backed by a wall of shelves filled with various articles of cutlery and other tools. On his right were shelves of clothing, a few wide hats, and nearer the counter at the end was the ammuni
tion, and beside it the bar. There were groceries and several opened barrels. Near a stove, now cold, sat two old men. At the bar Kansas was talking to Lisa.

  Kilkenny walked down the right side of the long room whose middle was also stacked with boxes and barrels. As he approached the near end of the bar, Kansas looked up. In that instant the gunfighter knew he was recognized.

  “Rye, if you would,” Kilkenny said quietly. His eyes turned to Kansas, alert, probing. “What are you drinking, friend?”

  Kansas’s mouth was dry. He started to speak, swallowed, and then said, “Rye. Mine’s rye, too, Lisa.”

  The Portuguese noticed nothing out of the ordinary, and put the glasses on the bar. His quick glance, however, noticed that the gray shirt was new and clean, the flat-brimmed hat was in good condition, and Kilkenny was clean-shaven. He left the bottle on the bar. He knew when a man could pay for his drinks.

  Kansas recovered himself slightly. Here was his chance to do that job for Poke, dropped right in his lap. Luck seemed to be with him, but he reflected uneasily that Kilkenny did not have a reputation as the sort of man who would hire his gun. “Driftin’ through?” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Nice country around here.”

  “Seems so.”

  “There’s jobs. Mailer, he’s foreman out to the Blue Hill, he took on a hand the other day.” He dropped his voice. “Poke Markham was talkin’ to me. Seems he’s huntin’a particular man for a very particular job. From the way you wear those guns, you might be just the man.”

  Kilkenny looked into his glass. Now, what was this? A trap? Or was Dunning looking for gunmen? “We might talk about it,” he said. “I just might be interested.”

  Kansas was pleased and disappointed at the same time. He had heard much of Kilkenny, and while if he did this job for Poke, it might mean more money, which he could always use, he was sorry that Kilkenny would consider such a thing.