the Daybreakers (1960)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 06

  Of the books I'd bought I'd read Marcy's guide books first, and then that story, The Deerslayer. That was a sure enough good story too. Then I read Washington Irving's book about traveling on the prairies, and now was reading Gregg on Commerce of the Prairies. Reading those books was making me talk better and look around more and see what Irving had seen, or Gregg. It was mighty interesting.

  Orrin and me headed for the hills to scout a place for a home. Sate was feeling his oats and gave me a lively go-around but I figured the trip would take some of the salt out of him. That Satan horse really did like to hump his back and duck his head between his legs.

  We rode along, talking land, cattle, and politics, and enjoying the day. This was a far cry from those blue-green Tennessee mountains, but the air was so clear you could hardly believe it, and I'd never seen a more beautiful land. The mountains were close above us, sharp and clear against the sky, and mostly covered with pines.

  Sate wasn't cutting up any more. He was stepping right out like he wanted to go somewhere, but pretty soon I began to get a feeling I didn't like very much.

  Sometimes a man's senses will pick up sounds or glimpses not strong enough to make an impression on him but they affect his thinking anyway. Maybe that's all there is to instinct or the awareness a man develops when he's in dangerous country. One thing I do know, his senses become tuned to sounds above and below the usual ranges of hearing.

  We caught, of a sudden, a faint smell of dust on the air. There was no wind, but there was dust. We walked our horses forward and I watched Sate's ears. Those ears pricked up, like the mustang he was, and I knew he was aware of something himself.

  My eyes caught an impression and I walked my horse over for a look where part of the bark was peeled back from a branch. There were horses' tracks on the ground around the bush.

  "Three or four, wouldn't you say, Tyrel?"

  "Five. This one is different. The horses must have stood here around two hours, and then the fifth one came up but he didn't stop or get down."

  Several cigarette butts were under a tree near where the horses had been tethered, and the stub of a black cigar. We were already further north than we had planned to go and suddenly it came to me. "Orrin, we're on the Alvarado grant."

  He looked around, studied our back trail and said. "I think it's Torres.

  Somebody is laying for him."

  He walked his horse along, studying tracks. One of the horses had small feet, a light, almost prancing step. We both knew that track. A man who can read sign can read a track the way a banker would a signature. That small hoof and light step, and that sidling way of moving was Reed Carney's show horse.

  Whoever the others had been, and the chances were Reed Carney had joined up with Fetterson and Pritts, they had waited there until the fifth man came along to get them. And that meant he could have been a lookout, watching for the man they were to kill.

  Now we were assuming a good deal. Maybe. But there was just nothing to bring a party up here ... not in those days.

  Orrin shucked his Winchester.

  It was pine timber now and the trail angled up the slope through the trees. When we stopped again we were high up and the air was so clear you could see for miles. The rim was not far ahead. We saw them.

  Four riders, and below on the slope a fifth one, scouting. And off across the valley floor, a plume of dust that looked like it must be the one who was to be the target.

  The men were below us, taking up position to cover a place not sixty yards from their rifles. They were a hundred feet or so higher than the rider, and he would be in the open.

  Orrin and me left our horses in the trees. We stood on the edge of the mesa with a straight drop of about seventy feet right ahead of us, then the talus sloped away steeply to where the five men had gathered after leaving their horses tied to the brush a good hundred yards off.

  They were well concealed from below. There was no escape for them, however, except to right or left. They could not come up the hill, and they could not go over the rim. Orrin found himself a nice spot behind a wedged-up slab of rock.

  Me, I was sizing up a big boulder and getting an idea. That boulder sat right on the edge of the mesa, in fact it was a part of the edge that was ready to fall ... with a little help.

  Now I like to roll rocks. Sure, it's crazy, but I like to see them roll and bounce and take a lot of debris with them. So I walked to the rim, braced myself against the trunk of a gnarled old cedar and put my feet against the edge of that rock.

  The rider they were waiting for was almost in sight. When I put my boots against that rock my knees had to be doubled up, so I began to push. I began to straighten them out. The rock crunched heavily, teetered slightly, and then with a slow, majestic movement it turned over and fell.

  The huge boulder hit with a heavy thud and turned over, gained speed, and rolled down the hill. The riders glanced around and seemed unable to move, and then as that boulder turned over and started to fall, they scattered like sheep.

  At the same instant, Orrin lifted his rifle and put a bullet into the brush ahead of their horses. One of the broncs reared up and as Orrin fired again, he jerked his head and ripping off a branch of the brush, broke free and started to run, holding his head to one side to keep from tripping on the branch.

  The lone horseman had come into sight, and when he stared up the mountain, I lifted my hat and waved, knowing from his fawn-colored sombrero that it was Torres. Doubtfully, he lifted a hand, unable to make us out at that distance.

  One of the men started for their horses and Orrin put a bullet into the ground ahead of him and the man dove for shelter. Orrin levered another shot into the rocks where he disappeared then sat back and lighted up one of those Spanish cigars.

  It was downright hot. Settling in behind some rocks I took a pull at my canteen and figured down where they were it had to be hotter than up here where we had some shade.

  "I figure if those men have to walk home," Orrin said, "It might cool their tempers some."

  A slow half hour passed before one of the men down below got ambitious. My rifle put a bullet so close it must have singed his whiskers and he hunkered down in the rocks. Funny part of it was, we could see them plain as day. Had we wanted to kill them we could have. And then we heard a horse coming through the trees and I walked back to meet Torres.

  "What happens, senor?" He looked sharply from Orrin to me.

  "Looks like you were expected. Orrin and me were hunting a place for ourselves and we found some tracks, and when we followed them up there were five men down there." I showed him where. Then I explained our idea about the horses and he agreed.

  "It will be for me to do, senor."

  He went off down the slope and after awhile I saw him come out of the trees, untie the horses and run them off.

  When Torres rode back Orrin came up to join us. "It is much you have done for me," Torres said. "I shall not forget."

  "It is nothing," I said, "one of them is Reed Carney."

  "Gracias, Senor Sackett," Torres said. "I believed I was safe so far from the hacienda, but a man is safe nowhere."

  Riding back toward Mora I kept still and let Orrin and Torres get acquainted.

  Torres was a solid man and I knew Orrin would like him, and Torres liked people, so the contrary was true.

  Torres turned off toward the ranch and we rode on into Mora. We got down in front of the saloon and strolled inside. It took one glance to see we weren't among friends. For one thing there wasn't a Mex in the place and this was mostly a Mexican town, and there were faces I remembered from Pawnee Rock. We found a place at the bar and ordered drinks.

  There must have been forty men in that saloon, a dusty, dirty lot, most of them with uncut hair over their collars, and loaded down with six-shooters and bowie knives. Fetterson was at the other end of the bar but hadn't seen us.

  We finished our drinks and edged toward the door and then we came face to face with Red ... the one my horse had knocked
down at Pawnee Rock.

  He started to open his mouth, but before he could say a word, Orrin clapped him on the shoulder. "Red! You old sidewinder! Come on outside and let's talk!"

  Now Red was a slow-thinking man and he blinked a couple of times, trying to decide what Orrin was talking about, and we had him outside before he could yell. He started to yell but Orrin whooped with laughter and slapped Red on the back so hard it knocked all the breath out of him. Outside the door I put my knife against his ribs and he lost all impulse to yell. I mean he steadied down some.

  "Now wait a minute," he protested, "I never done you boys any harm. I was just--"

  "You just walk steady," I told him, "I'm not in the mood for trouble myself. I got a backache and I don't feel up to a shooting, so don't push me."

  "Who's pushing?"

  "Red," Orrin said seriously, "you're the kind of a man we like to see. Handsome, upstanding ... and alive."

  "Alive!" I added, "But you'd make a handsome corpse, Red."

  By now we had him out in the dark and away from his friends, and he was scared, his eyes big as pesos. He looked like a treed coon in the lanternlight. "What you goin' to do to me?" he protested. "Look, I--"

  "Red," Orrin said, "There's a fair land up north, a wide and beautiful land.

  It's a land with running water, clear streams, and grass hip-high to a tall elk.

  I tell you Red, that's a country!"

  "And you know something, Red?" I put in my two-bits' worth. "We think you should see it."

  "We surely do." Orrin was dead serious. "We're going to miss you if you go, Red.

  But Red, you stay and we won't miss you."

  "You got a horse, Red?"

  "Yeah, sure." He was looking from one to the other of us. "Sure, I got a horse."

  "You'll like that country up north. Now it can get too hot here for a man, Red, and the atmosphere is heavy ... there's lead in it, you know, or liable to be.

  We think you should get a-straddle of that cayuse of yours, Red, and keep riding until you get to Pike's Peak, or maybe Montana."

  "To--tonight!" he protested.

  "Of course. All your life you've wanted to see that country up north, Red, and you just can't wait."

  "I--I got to get my outfit. I--"

  "Don't do it, Red." Orrin shook his head, big-eyed. "Don't you do it." He leaned closer. "Vigilantes, Red. Vigilantes."

  Red jerked under my hand, and he wet his lips with his tongue. "Now, look here!" he protested.

  "The climate's bad here, Red. A man's been known to die from it. Why, I know men that'd bet you wouldn't live to see daybreak."

  We came to a nice little gray. "This your horse?"

  He nodded.

  "You get right up into the saddle, Red. No--keep your gun. If somebody should decide to shoot you, they'd want you to have your gun on to make it look right.

  Looks bad to shoot an unarmed man. Now don't you feel like traveling, Red?"

  By this time Red may have been figuring things out, or maybe he never even got started. Anyway, he turned his horse into the street and went out of town at a fast canter.

  Orrin looked at me and grinned. "Now there's a traveling man!" He looked more serious. "I never thought we'd get out of there without a shooting. That bunch was drinking and they would have loved to lynch a couple of us, or shoot us."

  We rode back to join Cap and Tom Sunday. "About time. Tom has been afraid he'd have to go down and pull you out from under some Settlement man," Cap said.

  "What do you mean ... Settlement man?"

  "Jonathan Pritts has organized a company which he calls the Settlement Company.

  You can buy shares. If you don't have money you can buy them with your gun."

  Orrin had nothing to say, he never did when Pritts' name was mentioned. He just sat down on his bed and pulled off a boot.

  "You know," he said reflectively, "all that talk about the country up north convinced me. I think we should all go."

  Chapter X

  Mora lay quiet in the warm sun, and along the single street, nothing stirred.

  From the porch of the empty house in which we had been camping, I looked up the street, feeling the tautness that lay beneath the calm. Orrin was asleep inside the house, and I was cleaning my .44 Henry. There was trouble building and we all knew it.

  Fifty or sixty of the Settlement crowd were in town, and they were getting restless for something to do, but I had my own plans and didn't intend they should be ruined by a bunch of imported trouble makers.

  Tom Sunday came out on the porch and stopped under the overhang where I was working on my rifle. He took out one of those thin black cigars and lighted up.

  "Are you riding out today?"

  "Out to the place," I said, "we've found us a place about eight or nine miles from here."

  He paused and took the cigar from his mouth. "I want a place too, but first I want to see what happens here. A man with an education could get into politics and do all right out here." He walked on down the street.

  Tom was no fool; he knew there was going to be a demand for some law in Mora, and he intended to be it. I knew he wouldn't take a back seat because of Orrin.

  It worried me to think of what would happen when Orrin and Tom found out each wanted the same office, although I doubted if Orrin would mind too much.

  When I finished cleaning my rifle I saddled up, put my blanket roll behind the saddle and got ready to ride out. Orrin crawled out of bed and came to the door.

  "I'll be out later, or Cap will," he said. "I want to keep an eye on things here." He walked to the horse with me. "Tom say anything?"

  "He wants to be marshal."

  Orrin scowled. "Damn it, Tyrel, I was afraid of that. He'd probably make a better marshal than me."

  "There's no telling about that, but I'd say it was a tossup, Orrin, but you can win in the election. I just hate to see you two set off against each other.

  Tom's a good man."

  Neither one of us said anything for a while, standing there in the sun, thinking about it. It was a mighty fine morning and hard to believe so much trouble was building around us.

  "I've got to talk to him," Orrin said at last, "this ain't right. We've got to level with him."

  All I could think of was the fact the four of us had been together two years now, and it had been a good period for all of us. I wanted nothing to happen to that. Friendships are not so many in this life, and we had put rough country behind us and kicked up some dust in our passing, and we had smelled a little powder smoke together and there's nothing binds men together like sweat and gunsmoke.

  "You go ahead, Orrin. We'll talk to Tom tomorrow."

  I wanted to be there when it was talked out, because Tom liked me and he trusted me. He and Orrin were too near alike in some ways, and too different in others.

  There was room enough for both of them, but I was quite sure that Tom would want to go first.

  It took me a shade more than an hour to ride down to where we figured to start ranching. There were trees along the river there, and some good grass, and I bedded down at the mouth of the gap, in a corner among the rocks. Picketing Montana horse, I switched from boots to moccasins and scouted around, choosing the site for the house and the corrals.

  The bench where the house was to be was only twenty feet above the river, but above the highest watermark. The cliff raised up behind the bench, and the location was a good one.

  Peeling off my shirt, I worked through the afternoon clearing rocks and brush off the building site and pacing it off. Then I cut poles and began building a corral for our horses, for we would need that first of all. Later, when dark began to come, I bathed in the creek and putting on my clothes, built a small fire and made coffee and chewed on some jerked beef.

  After I'd eaten I dug into my saddlebags for a book and settled down to read.

  Time to time I'd get up and look around, or stand for a spell in the darkness away from the fire, just listening. By th
e time the fire was burning down I moved back from the fire and unrolled my bed. A bit of wind was blowing up and a few clouds had drifted over the stars.

  Taking my rifle I went out to check on Montana horse who was close by. I shifted his picket pin a little closer and on fresh grass. There was a feel to the night that I didn't like, and I found myself wishing the boys would show up.

  When I heard a sound it was faint, but Montana horse got it, too. His head came up and his ears pricked and his nostrils reached out for the smell of things.

  Putting a hand on his shoulder, I said, "All right, boy. You just take it easy."

  Somebody was out there in the night, calling to me. Now a man who goes rushing out into the night will sooner or later wind up with a bullet in his belly. Me, I circled around, scouting, and moving mighty easy. I had a sight more enemies in this country than friends.

  It wasn't any time at all until I saw a standing horse, heard a low moan, and then I moved in. It was a man on the ground, and he was bad hurt.

  "Senor!" the voice was faint. "Please ... it is Miguel. I come to you ... I bring you troubles."

  So I scooped him off the ground and put him on his horse. "You hang on," I said.

  "Only a few yards."

  "Men come to kill me, senor. It will be trouble for you."

  "I'll talk to them," I said, "I'll read 'em from the Scriptures."

  He passed out, but I got him to camp and unloaded him. He was shot all right.

  He'd had the hell shot out of him. There was a bullet hole in his thigh and there was another high in his right chest that had gone clean through. His clothes were soaked with blood and he was all in.

  There was water by the fire so I peeled back his clothes and went to work. First off, I bathed away the blood and plugged the holes to stop the bleeding. Come daylight, if he made it, I was going to have to do more.

  With the tip of my bowie I slit the hide and eased a bullet out from under the skin of his back, then bathed the wound and fixed it up as best I could. I could hear riders working their way down the country, a-hunting him. Sooner or later they'd see the reflection of my fire and then I'd have to take care of that.