Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Still no sign of the Kid. Well, it would do no harm to wait, and he could at least get Ruth out of harm's way. He turned aside and went into the store with her. She had a new bridle she wanted him to see, and she wanted to know if he thought the bit was right for her mare. Deliberately, she stalled. Once he looked up, thinking he heard riders. Then he replied to her questions. Finally, he got away.

  He stepped out into the sunlight, smelling dust in the air. Then he walked slowly across and up the street. As he reached the center of the street, the Mohave Kid came out of the Trail Driver and stepped off the walk, facing him.

  Thirty yards separated them. Ab Kale waited, his keen blue eyes steady and cold. He must make this definite, and if the Kid made the slightest move toward a gun, he must kill him. The sun was very warm.

  “Kid,” he said, “your business in town is finished. We don't want you here. Because of the family connection, I let you know that you weren't welcome. I wanted to avoid a showdown. Now I see you won't accept that, so I'm giving you exactly one hour to leave town. If you are here after that hour, or if you ever come again, I'll kill you!”

  The Mohave Kid started to speak, and then he stopped, frozen by a sudden movement.

  From behind stores, from doorways, from alleys, stepped a dozen men. All held shotguns or rifles, all directed at the Kid. He stared at them in shocked disbelief. Johnny Holdstock . . . Alec and Dave Holdstock . . . Jim Gray, their cousin . . . Webb Dixon, a brother-in-law . . . and Myron Holdstock, the old bull of the herd.

  Ab Kale was petrified. Then he remembered Riley on that racing horse and that today was old Myron's fortieth wedding anniversary, with half the family at the party.

  The Mohave Kid stared at them, his face turning gray and then dark with sullen fury.

  “You do like the marshal says, Kid.” Old Myron Holdstock's voice rang in the streets. “We've protected ye because you're one of our'n. But you don't start trouble with another of our'n. You git on your hoss an' git. Don't you ever show hide nor hair around here again.”

  The Mohave Kid's face was a mask of fury. He turned deliberately and walked to his horse. No man could face all those guns, and being of Holdstock blood, he knew what would come if he tried to face them down. They would kill him.

  He swung into the saddle, cast one black, bleak look at Ab Kale, and then rode out of town.

  Slowly, Kale turned to Holdstock, who had been standing in the door of his shop. “You needn't have done that,” he said, “but I'm glad you did. . . .”

  THREE DAYS WENT by slowly, and then the rains broke. It began to pour shortly before daybreak and continued to pour. The washes were running bank full by noon, and the street was deserted. Kale left his office early and stepped outside, buttoning his slicker. The street was running with water, and a stream of rain was cutting a ditch under the corner of the office. Getting a shovel from the stable, he began to divert the water.

  Up the street at the gun shop, Riley McClean got to his feet and took off the leather apron in which he worked. He was turning toward the door when it darkened suddenly and he looked up to see the bleak, rain-wet face of the Mohave Kid.

  The Kid stared at him. “I've come for my gun,” he said.

  “That'll be two dollars,” Riley said coolly.

  “That's a lot, ain't it?”

  “It's my price to you.”

  The Kid's flat eyes stared at him, and his shoulder seemed to hunch. Then from the tail of his eye he caught the movement of the marshal as he started to work with the shovel. Quickly, he forked out two dollars and slapped it on the counter. Then he fed five shells into the gun and stepped to the door. He took two quick steps and vanished.

  Surprised, Riley started around the counter after him. But as he reached the end of the counter, he heard the Kid yell, “Ab!”

  Kale, his slicker buttoned over his gun, looked around at the call. Frozen with surprise, he saw the Mohave Kid standing there, gun in hand. The Kid's flat face was grinning with grim triumph. And then the Kid's gun roared, and Ab Kale took a step backward and fell, face down in the mud.

  The Mohave Kid laughed, suddenly, sardonically. He dropped his gun into his holster and started for the horse tied across the street.

  He had taken but one step when Riley McClean spoke: “All right, Kid, here it is!”

  The Mohave Kid whirled sharply to see the gunsmith standing in the doorway. The rain whipping against him, Riley McClean looked at the Kid. “Ab was my friend,” he said. “I'm going to marry Ruth.”

  The Kid reached then, and in one awful, endless moment of realization, he knew what Ab Kale had known for these several months, that Riley McClean was a man born to the gun. Even as the Kid's hand slapped leather, he saw Riley's weapon clearing and coming level. The gun steadied, and for that endless instant the Kid stared into the black muzzle. Then his own iron was clear and swinging up, and Riley's gun was stabbing flame.

  The bullets, three of them fired rapidly, smashed the Mohave Kid in and around the heart. He took a step back, his own gun roaring and the bullet plowing mud, and then he went to his knees as Riley walked toward him, his gun poised for another shot. As the Kid, died, his brain flared with realization, with knowledge of death, and he fell forward, sprawling on his face in the street. A rivulet, diverted by his body, curved around him, ran briefly red, and then trailed on.

  People were gathering, but Riley McClean walked to Ab Kale. As he reached him, the older man stirred slightly.

  Dropping to his knees, Riley turned him over. The marshal's eyes flickered open. There was a cut from the hairline on the side of his head in front that ran all along his scalp. The shattered end of the shovel handle told the story. Striking the shovel handle, which had been in front of his heart at the moment of impact, the bullet had glanced upward, knocking him out and ripping a furrow in his scalp.

  Ab Kale got slowly to his feet and stared up the muddy street where the crowd clustered about the Mohave Kid.

  “You killed him?”

  “Had to. I thought he'd killed you.”

  Ab nodded. “You've got a fast hand. I've known it for months. I hope you'll never have to kill another man.”

  “I won't,” Riley said quietly. “I'm not even going to carry a gun after this.”

  Ab Kale glanced back up the street. “So he's dead at last. I've carried that burden a long time.” He looked up, his face still white with shock. “They'll bury him. Let's go home, son. The women will be worried.”

  And the two men walked down the street side by side, Ab Kale and his son. . . .

  Author's Note

  THE LION HUNTER

  AND THE LADY

  GROWING UP, THE boys and girls of the frontier learned to make every shot count. The girls, as witness Annie Oakley, hunted meat for the table also.

  Ira Freeman, in his History Of Montezuma County (Colorado) says, “Every rider carried a gun, usually a revolver or six-shooter, as it was most often called . . . almost always it was a Colt and nearly everyone wanted a .45.

  “. . . Nearly every rider was skilled in the use of these fire-arms. They practiced shooting all their purse would allow, and the aim was to be quick on the draw. Often how quick a man was, was the difference between life and death.”

  Harry Drachman, commenting on the shooting of Jeff Milton, frontier peace office, tells of him “tossing half-dollars in the air, then drawing his six-shooter and hitting them on the fly.”

  THE LION HUNTER

  AND THE LADY

  THE MOUNTAIN LION stared down at him with wild, implacable eyes and snarled deep in its chest. He was big, one of the biggest Morgan had seen in his four years of hunting them. The lion crouched on a thick limb not over eight feet above his head.

  “Watch him, Cat!” Lone John Williams warned. “He's the biggest I ever seen! The biggest in these mountains, I'll bet!”

  “You ever seen Lop-Ear?” Morgan queried, watching the lion. “He's half again bigger than this one!” He jumped as he spoke, caught
a limb in his left hand and then swung himself up as easily as a trapeze performer.

  The lion came to its feet then and crouched, growling wickedly, threatening the climbing man. But Morgan continued to mount toward the lion.

  “Give me that pole,” Morgan called to the older man. “I'll have this baby in another minute.”

  “You watch it,” Williams warned. “That lion ain't foolin'!”

  Never in the year he had been working with Cat Morgan had Lone John become accustomed to seeing a man go up a tree after a mountain lion. Yet in that period Morgan had captured more than fifty lions alive and had killed as many more. Morgan was not a big man as big men are counted, but he was tall, lithe, and extraordinarily strong. Agile as a cat, he climbed trees, cliffs, and rocky slopes after the big cats, for which he was named, and had made a good thing out of supplying zoo and circus animal buyers.

  With a noose at the end of the pole, and only seven feet below the snarling beast, Morgan lifted the pole with great care. The lion struck viciously and then struck again, and in that instant after the second strike, Morgan put the loop around his neck and drew the noose tight. Instantly the cat became a snarling, clawing, spitting fury, but Morgan swung down from the tree, dragging the beast after him.

  Before the yapping dogs could close with him, Lone John tossed his own loop, snaring the lion's hind legs. Morgan closed with the animal, got a loop around the powerful forelegs, and drew it tight. In a matter of seconds the mountain lion was neatly trussed and muzzled, with a stick thrust into its jaws between its teeth, and its jaws tied shut with rawhide.

  MORGAN DREW A heavy sack around the animal and then tied it at the neck, leaving the lion's head outside.

  Straightening, Cat Morgan took out the makin's and began to roll a smoke. “Well,” he said, as he put the cigarette between his lips, “that's one more and one less.”

  Hard-ridden horses sounded in the woods and then a half dozen riders burst from the woods and a yell rent the air. “Got 'em, Dave! Don't move, you!” The guns the men held backed up their argument, and Cat Morgan relaxed slowly, his eyes straying from one face to another, finally settling on the big man who rode last from out of the trees.

  This man was not tall, but blocky and powerful. His neck was thick and his jaw wide. He was clean-shaven, unusual in this land of beards and mustaches. His face wore a smile of unconcealed satisfaction now, and swinging down he strode toward them. “So, you finally got caught, didn't you? Now how smart do you feel?”

  “Who do you think we are?” Morgan asked cooly. “I never saw you before!”

  “I reckon not, but we trailed you right here. You've stole your last horse! Shake out a loop, boys! We'll string 'em up right here.”

  “Be careful with that talk,” Lone John said. “We ain't horse thieves an' ain't been out of the hills in more'n a year. You've got the wrong men.”

  “That's tough,” the big man said harshly, “because you hang, here and now.”

  “Maybe they ain't the men, Dorfman. After all, we lost the trail back yonder a couple of miles.” The speaker was a slender man with black eyes and swarthy face.

  Without turning Dorfman said sharply, “Shut up! When I want advice from a breed, I'll ask it!”

  His hard eyes spotted the burlap sack. The back of it lay toward him, and the lion's head was faced away from him. All he saw was the lump of the filled sack. “What's this? Grub?” He kicked hard at the sack, and from it came a snarl of fury.

  Dorfman jumped and staggered back, his face white with shock. Somebody laughed, and Dorfman wheeled, glaring around for the offender. An old man with gray hair and a keen, hard face looked at Morgan. “What's in that sack?” he demanded.

  “A mountain lion,” Cat replied calmly. “A nice, big, live lion. Make a good pet for your loudmouthed friend.” He paused and then smiled tolerantly at Dorfman. “If he wouldn't be scared of him!”

  Dorfman's face was livid. Furious that he had been frightened before these men, and enraged at Morgan as the cause of it, he sprang at Morgan and swung back a huge fist. Instantly, Cat Morgan stepped inside the punch, catching it on an upraised forearm. At the same instant he whipped a wicked right uppercut to Dorfman's wind. The big man gasped and paled. He looked up, and Morgan stepped in and hooked hard to the body and then the chin. Dorfman hit the ground in a lump.

  Showing no sign of exertion, Morgan stepped back. He looked at the older man. “He asked for it,” he said calmly. “I didn't mind, though.” He glanced at Dorfman, who was regaining his breath and his senses and then his eyes swung back to the older man. “I'm Cat Morgan, a lion hunter. This is Lone John Williams, my partner. What Lone John said was true. We haven't been out of the hills in a year.”

  “He's telling' the truth.” It was the half-breed. The man was standing beside the tree. “His hounds are tied right back here, an' from the look of this tree they just caught that cat. The wood is still wet where the bark was skimmed from the tree by his boots.”

  “All right, Loop.” The older man's eyes came back to Morgan. “Sorry. Reckon we went off half-cocked. I've heard of you.”

  A WIRY, YELLOW-HAIRED cowhand leaned on his pommel. “You go up a tree for the cats?” he asked incredulously. “I wouldn't do it for a thousand dollars!”

  Dorfman was on his feet. His lips were split and there was a cut on his cheekbone. One eye was rapidly swelling. He glared at Morgan. “I'll kill you for this!” he snarled.

  Morgan looked at him. “I reckon you'll try,” he said. “There ain't much man in you, just brute and beef.”

  The older man spoke up quickly. “Let's go, Dorf! This ain't catchin' our thief!”

  As the cavalcade straggled from the clearing, the man called Loop loitered behind. “Watch yourself, Morgan,” he said quietly. “He's bad, that Dorfman. He'll never rest until he kills you, now. He won't take it lyin' down.”

  “Thanks.” Cat's gray-green eyes studied the half-breed. “What was stolen?”

  Loop jerked his head. “Some of Dorfman's horses. Blooded stock, stallion, three mares, and four colts.”

  Morgan watched them go and then walked back down the trail for the pack animals. When they had the cat loaded, Lone John left him to take it back to camp.

  Mounting his own zebra dun, Morgan now headed downcountry to prospect a new canyon for cat sign. He had promised a dealer six lions and he had four of them. With luck he could get the other two this week. Only one of the hounds was with him, a big, ugly brute that was one of the two best lion dogs he had, just a mongrel. Big Jeb was shrewd beyond average. He weighed one hundred and twenty pounds and was tawny as the lions he chased.

  The plateau was pine clad, a thick growth that spilled over into the deep canyon beyond, and that canyon was a wicked jumble of wrecked ledges and broken rock. At the bottom he could hear the roar and tumble of a plunging mountain stream, although he had never seen it. That canyon should be home for a lot of lions.

  There was no trail. The three of them, man, dog, and horse, sought a trail down, working their way along the rim over a thick cover of pine needles. At last Cat Morgan saw the slope fall away steeply, but at such a grade that he could walk the horse to the bottom. Slipping occasionally on the needles, they headed down.

  Twice Jeb started to whine as he picked up old lion smell, but each time he was dissuaded by Cat's sharp-spoken command.

  There was plenty of sign. In such a canyon as this it should take him no time at all to get his cats. He was walking his horse and rolling a smoke when he heard the sound of an ax.

  It brought him up standing.

  IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE! There could be nobody in this wild area, nobody! Not in all the days they had worked the region had they seen more than one or two men until they encountered the horse-thief hunters.

  Carefully, he went on, calling Jeb close to the horse and moving on with infinite care. Whoever was in this wilderness would be somebody he would want to see before he was seen. He remembered the horse thieves whose trail ha
d been lost. Who else could it be?

  Instantly, he saw evidence of the correctness of his guess. In the dust at the mouth of the canyon were tracks of a small herd of horses!

  Grimly, he eased his Colt in the holster. Horse thieves were a common enemy, and although he had no liking for Dorfman, this was his job, too.

  Taller than most, Cat Morgan was slender of waist. Today he wore boots, but usually moccasins. His red flannel shirt was sun faded and patched, his black jeans were saddle polished and his face was brown from sun and wind, hollow cheeked under the keen gray-green eyes. His old hat was black and flat crowned. It showed rough usage.

  Certainly, the thief had chosen well. Nobody would ever find him back in here. The horses had turned off to the right. Following, Cat went down, through more tumbled rock and boulders and then drew up on the edge of a clearing.

  It was after sundown here. The shadows were long, but near the far wall was the black oblong of a cabin, and light streamed through a window and the wide-open door.

  Dishes rattled, the sound of a spoon scraping something from a dish, and he heard a voice singing. A woman's voice!

  Amazed, he started walking his horse nearer, yet the horse had taken no more than a step when he heard a shrill scream, a cry odd and inhuman, a cry that brought him up short. At the same instant, the light in the house went out and all was silent. Softly, he spoke to his horse and walked on toward the house.

  He heard the click of a back drawn hammer, and a cool, girl's voice said, “Stand right where you are, mister! And if you want to get a bullet through your belt buckle, just start something!”

  “I'm not moving,” Morgan said impatiently. “But this isn't a nice way to greet visitors!”

  “Who invited you?” she retorted. “What do you want, anyway? Who are you?”

  “Cat Morgan. I'm a lion hunter. As for bein' invited, I've been a lot of places without bein' invited. Let me talk to your dad or your husband.”