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

by Louis L'Amour

  “You'll talk to me. Lead your horse and start walkin' straight ahead. My eyes are mighty good, so if you want to get shot, just try me.”

  With extreme care, Morgan walked on toward the house. When he was within a dozen paces a shrill but harsh voice cried, “Stand where you are! Drop your guns!”

  Impatiently, Morgan replied, “I'll stand where I am, but I won't drop my guns. Light up and let's see who you are!”

  SOMEONE MOVED, AND later there was a light. Then the girl spoke. “Come in, you!”

  She held a double-barreled shotgun and she was well back inside the door. A tall, slender but well-shaped girl, she had rusty-red hair and a few scattered freckles. She wore a buckskin shirt that failed to conceal the lines of her lovely figure.

  Her inspection of him was cool, careful. Then she looked at the big dog that had come in and stood alongside him. “Lion hunter? You the one who has that pack of hounds I hear nearby every day?”

  He nodded. “I've been runnin' lions up on the plateau. Catchin' 'em, too.”

  She stared. “Catching them? Alive? Sounds to me like you have more nerve than sense. What do you want live lions for?”

  “Sell 'em to some circus or zoo. They bring anywhere from three to seven hundred dollars, dependin' on size and sex. That beats punchin' cows.”

  She nodded. “It sure does, but I reckon punchin' cows is a lot safer.”

  “How about you?” he said. “What's a girl doin' up in a place like this? I didn't have any idea there was anybody back in here.”

  “Nor has anybody else up to now. You ain't going to tell, are you? If you go out of here an' tell, I'll be in trouble. Dorfman would be down here after me in a minute.”

  “For stealin' horses?” Morgan asked shrewdly.

  Her eyes flashed. “They are not his horses! They are mine! Every last one of them!” She lowered the gun a trifle. “Dorfman is both a bully and a thief! He stole my dad's ranch, then his horses. That stallion is mine, and so are the mares and their get!”

  “Tell me about it,” he suggested. Carefully, he removed his hat.

  She studied him doubtfully and then lowered the gun. “I was just putting supper on. Draw up a chair.”

  “Let's eat!” a sharp voice yelled. Startled, Cat looked around and for the first time saw the parrot in the cage.

  “That's Pancho,” she explained. “He's a lot of company.”

  Her father had been a trader among the Nez Perce Indians, and from them he obtained the splended Appa-loosa stallion and the mares from which his herd was started. When Karl Dorfman appeared, there had been trouble. Later, while she was east on a trip, her father had been killed by a fall from a horse. Returning, she found the ranch sold and the horses gone.

  “They told me the stallion had thrown him. I knew better. It had been Dorfman and his partner, Ad Vetter, who found Dad. And then they brought bills against the estate and forced a quick sale of all property to satisfy them. The judge worked with them. Shortly after, the judge left and bought a ranch of his own. Dad never owed money to anyone. I believe they murdered him.”

  “That would be hard to prove. Did you have any evidence?”

  “Only what the doctor said. He told me the blows could not have been made by the fall. He believed Dad had been struck while lying on the ground.”

  Cat Morgan believed her. Whether his own dislike of Dorfman influenced it, he did not know. Somehow the story rang true. He studied the problem thoughtfully.

  “Did you get anything from the ranch?”

  “Five hundred dollars and a ticket back east.” Anger flashed in her eyes as she leaned toward him to refill his cup. “Mr. Morgan, that ranch was worth at least forty thousand dollars. Dad had been offered that much and refused it.”

  “So you followed them?”

  “Yes. I appeared to accept the situation, but discovered where Dorfman had gone and followed him, determined to get the horses back, at least.”

  IT WAS EASIER, he discovered two hours later, to ride to the secret valley than to escape from it. After several false starts, he succeeded in finding the spot where the lion had been captured that day, and then hit the trail for camp. As he rode, the memory of Dorfman kept returning—a brutal, hard man, accustomed to doing as he chose. They had not seen the last of him, they knew.

  Coming into the trees near the camp, Cat Morgan grew increasingly worried, for he smelled no smoke and saw no fire. Speaking to the horse, he rode into the basin and drew up sharply. Before him, suspended from a tree, was a long black burden!

  Clapping the spurs to the horse he crossed the clearing and grabbed the hanging figure. Grabbing his hunting knife, he slashed the rope that hung him from the tree and then lowered the old man to the ground. Loosening his clothes, he held his hand over the old man's heart. Lone John was alive!

  Swiftly, Morgan built a fire and got water. The old man had not only been hanged, but had been shot twice through the body and once through the hand. But he was still alive.

  The old man's lids fluttered, and he whispered, “Dorfman. Five of 'em! Hung me—heard somethin'—they done—took off.” He breathed hoarsely for a bit. “Figured it—it was you—reckon.”

  “Shhh! Take it easy now, John. You'll be all right.”

  “No. I'm done for. That rope—I grabbed it—held my weight till I plumb give out.”

  The wiry old hand gripping his own suddenly eased its grip, and the old man was dead.

  Grimly, Cat got to his feet. Carefully, he packed what gear had not been destroyed. The cats had been tied off a few yards from the camp and had not been found. He scattered meat to them, put water within their reach, and returned to his horse. A moment only, he hesitated. His eyes wide open to what lay ahead, he lifted the old man across the saddle of a horse and then mounted his own. The trail he took led to Seven Pines.

  It was the gray hour before the dawn when he rode into the town. Up the street was the sheriff's office. He knocked a long time before there was a reply. Then a hard-faced man with blue and cold eyes opened the door. “What's the matter? What's up?”

  “My partner's been murdered. Shot down, then hung.”

  “Hung?” The sheriff stared at him, no friendly light in his eyes. “Who hung him?”

  “Dorfman. There were five in the outfit.”

  The sheriff's face altered perceptibly at the name. He walked out and untied the old man's body, lowering it to the stoop before the office. He scowled. “I reckon,” he said dryly, “if Dorfman done it he had good reason. You better light out if you want to stay in one piece.”

  Unbelieving, Morgan stared at him. “You're the sheriff?” he demanded. “I'm chargin' Dorfman with murder. I want him arrested.”

  “You want?” The sheriff glared. “Who the devil are you? If Dorfman hung this man he had good reason. He's lost horses. I reckon he figured this hombre was one of the thieves. Now you slope it afore I lock you up.”

  Cat Morgan drew back three steps, his eyes on the sheriff. “I see. Lock me up, eh? Sheriff, you'd have a mighty hard job lockin' me up. What did you say your name was?”

  “Vetter, if it makes any difference.”

  “Vetter, eh? Ad Vetter?” Morgan was watching the sheriff like a cat.

  Sheriff Vetter looked at him sharply. “Yes, Ad Vetter. What about it?”

  CAT MORGAN TOOK another step back toward his horses, his eyes cold now. “Ad Vetter—a familiar name in the Nez Perce country.”

  Vetter started as if struck. “What do you mean by that?”

  Morgan smiled. “Don't you know,” he said, chancing a long shot, “that you and Dorfman are wanted up there for murderin' old man Madison?”

  “You're a liar!” Sheriff Vetter's face was white as death. He drew back suddenly, and Morgan could almost see the thought in the man's mind and knew that his accusation had marked him for death. “If Dorfman finds you here, he'll hang you, too.”

  Cat Morgan backed away slowly, watching Vetter. The town was coming awake now, and he wr
acked his brain for a solution to the problem. Obviously, Dorfman was a man with influence here, and Ad Vetter was sheriff. Whatever Morgan did or claimed was sure to put him in the wrong. And then he remembered the half-breed, Loop, and the older man who had cautioned Dorfman the previous afternoon.

  A man was sweeping the steps before the saloon, and Morgan stopped beside him. “Know a man named Loop? A breed?”

  “Sure do.” The sweeper straightened and measured Morgan. “Huntin' him?”

  “Yeah, and another hombre. Older feller, gray hair, pleasant face but frosty eyes. The kind that could be mighty bad if pushed too hard. I think I heard him called Dave.”

  “That'll be Allen. Dave Allen. He owns the D over A, west of town. Loop lives right on the edge of town in a shack. He can show you where Dave lives.”

  Turning abruptly, Morgan swung into the saddle and started out of town. As he rounded the curve toward the bridge, he glanced back. Sheriff Vetter was talking to the sweeper. Cat reflected grimly that it would do him but little good, for unless he had talked with Dorfman the previous night, and he did not seem to have, he would not understand Morgan's reason for visiting the old rancher. And Cat knew that he might be wasting his time.

  He recognized Loop's shack by the horse in the corral and drew up before it. The breed appeared in the door, wiping an ear with a towel. He was surprised when he saw Cat Morgan, but he listened as Morgan told him quickly about the hanging of Lone John Williams and Vetter's remarks.

  “No need to ride after Allen,” Loop said. “He's comin' down the road now. Him and Tex Norris. They was due in town this mornin'.”

  At Loop's hail, the two riders turned abruptly toward the cabin. Dave Allen listened in silence while Cat repeated his story, only now he told all, not that he had seen the girl or knew where she was, but that he had learned why the horses were stolen, and then about the strange death of old man Madison. Dave Allen sat his horse in silence and listened. Tex spat once, but made no other comment until the end. “That's Dorfman, Boss! I never did cotton to him!”

  “Wait.” Allen's eyes rested thoughtfully on Cat. “Why tell me? What do you want me to do?”

  CAT MORGAN SMILED suddenly, and when Tex saw that smile he found himself pleased that it was Dorfman this man wanted and not him. “Why, Allen, I don't want you to do anythin'! Only, I'm not an outlaw. I don't aim to become one for a no-account like Dorfman, nor another like this here Vetter. You're a big man hereabouts, so I figured to tell you my story and let you see my side of this before the trouble starts.”

  “You aim to go after him?”

  Morgan shook his head. “I'm a stranger here, Allen. He's named me for a horse thief, and the law's against me, too. I aim to let them come to me, right in the middle of town!”

  Loop walked back into his cabin, and when he came out he had a Spencer .56, and mounting, he fell in beside Morgan. “You'll get a fair break,” he said quietly, his eyes cold and steady. “I aim to see it. No man who wasn't all right would come out like that and state his case. Besides, you know, that old man Williams struck me like a mighty fine old gent.”

  DORFMAN WAS STANDING on the steps as they rode up. One eye was barely open, the other swollen. The marks of the beating were upon him. That he had been talking to Vetter was obvious by his manner, although the sheriff was nowhere in sight. Several hard-case cowhands loitered about, the presence creating no puzzle to Cat Morgan.

  Karl Dorfman glared at Allen. “You're keepin' strange company, Dave.”

  The old man's eyes chilled. “You aimin' to tell me who I should travel with, Dorfman? If you are, save your breath. We're goin' to settle more than one thing here today.”

  “You sidin' with this here horse thief?” Dorfman demanded.

  “I'm sidin' nobody. Last night you hanged a man. You're going to produce evidence here today as to why you believed him guilty. If that evidence isn't good, you'll be tried for murder.”

  Dorfman's face turned ugly. “Why, you old fool! You can't get away with that! Vetter's sheriff, not you! Besides,” he sneered, “you've only got one man with you.”

  “Two,” Loop said quietly, “I'm sidin' with Allen—and Cat Morgan, too.”

  Hatred blazed in Dorfman's eyes. “I never seen no good come out of a breed yet!” he flared. “You'll answer for this!”

  Dave Allen dismounted, keeping his horse between himself and Dorfman. By that time a good-sized crowd had gathered about. Tex Norris wore his gun well to the front, and he kept his eyes roving from one to the other of Dorfman's riders. Cat Morgan watched but said nothing.

  Four men had accompanied Dorfman, but there were others here who appeared to belong to his group. With Allen and himself there were only Tex and Loop, and yet, looking at them he felt suddenly happy. There were no better men than these, Tex with his boyish smile and careful eyes, Loop with his long, serious face. These men would stick. He stepped then into the van, seeing Vetter approach.

  Outside their own circle were the townspeople. These, in the last analysis, would be the judges, and now they were saying nothing. Beside him he felt a gentle pressure against his leg, and looking down saw Jeb standing there. The big dog had never left him. Morgan's heart was suddenly warm and his mind was cool and ready.

  “Dorfman!” His voice rang in the street. “Last night you hung my ridin' partner! Hung him for a horse thief, without evidence or reason! I charge you with murder!

  “The trail you had followed you lost, as Dave Allen and Loop will testify! Then you took it upon yourself to hang an old man simply because he happened to be in the vicinity!”

  His voice was loud in the street, and not a person in the crowd but could hear every syllable. Dorfman shifted his feet, his face ugly with anger, yet worried, too. Why didn't Vetter stop him? Arrest him?

  “Moreover, the horses you were searching for were stolen by you from Laurie Madison, in Montana! They were taken from the ranch after that ranch had been illegally sold, and after you and Vetter had murdered her father.”

  “That's a lie!” Dorfman shouted. He was frightened now. There was no telling how far such talk might carry. Once branded, a man would have a lot of explaining to do. Suppose what Morgan had told Vetter was true? That they were wanted in Montana? Suppose something had been uncovered?

  He looked beyond Morgan at Allen, Loop, and Tex. They worried him, for he knew their breed. Dave Allen was an Indian fighter, known and respected. Tex had killed a rustler only a few months ago in a gun battle. Loop was cool, careful, and a dead shot.

  “That's a lie,” he repeated. “Madison owed me money. I had papers agin' him!”

  “Forged papers! We're reopenin' the case, Dorfman, and this time there won't be any fixed judge to side you!”

  Dorfman felt trapped. Twice Cat Morgan had refused to draw when he had named him a liar, but Dorfman knew it was simply because he had not yet had his say. Of many things he was uncertain, but of one he was positive. Cat Morgan was not yellow.

  BEFORE HE SPOKE again, Sheriff Ad Vetter suddenly walked into sight. “I been investigatin' your claim,” he said to Morgan, “and she won't hold water. The evidence shows you strung up the old man yourself.”

  Cat Morgan shrugged. “Figured somethin' like that from you, Vetter. What evidence?”

  “Nobody else been near the place. That story about a gal is all cock and bull. You had some idea of an alibi when you dragged that in here.”

  “Why would he murder his partner?” Allen asked quietly. “That ain't sense, Ad.”

  “They got four lions up there. Them lions are worth money. He wanted it all for himself.”

  Cat Morgan smiled, and slowly lifting his left hand, he tilted his hat slightly. “Vetter,” he said, “You got a lot to learn. Lone John was my partner only in the campin' and ridin'. He was workin' for me. I catch my own cats. I got a contract with Lone John. Got my copy here in my pocket. He's goin' to be a hard man to replace because he'd learned how to handle cats. I went up the trees after 'em. Lone John
was mighty slick with a rope, and when a lion hit ground he dapped a rope on 'em fast. I liked that old man, Sheriff, and I'm chargin' Dorfman with murder like I said. I want him put in jail—now.”

  Vetter's face darkened. “You givin' orders now?”

  “If you've got any more evidence against Morgan,” Allen interrupted, “trot it out. Remember, I rode with Dorfman on that first posse. I know how he felt about this. He was frettin' to hang somebody, and the beatin' he took didn't set well. He figured Lone John's hangin' would scare Morgan out of the country.”

  Vetter hesitated, glancing almost apologetically at Dorfman. “Come on, Dorf,” he said. “We'll clear you. Come along.”

  An instant only the rancher hesitated, his eyes ugly. His glance went from Allen back to Cat Morgan, and then he turned abruptly. The two men walked away together. Dave Allen looked worried and he turned to Morgan. “You'd better get some evidence, Cat,” he said. “No jury would hang him on this; or even hold him for trial.”

  It was late evening in the cabin and Laurie filled Cat's cup once more. Outside, the chained big cats prowled restlessly, for Morgan had brought them down to the girl's valley to take better care of them, much to the disgust of Pancho, who stared at them from his perch and scolded wickedly.

  “What do you think will happen?” Laurie asked. “Will they come to trial?”

  “Not they—just Dorfman. Yes, I've got enough now so that I can prove a fair case against him. I've found a man who will testify that he saw him leave town with four riders and head for the hills, and that was after Allen and that crowd had returned. I've checked that rope they used, and it is Dorfman's. He used a hair rope, and most everybody around here uses rawhide riatas. Several folks will swear to that rope.”

  “Horse thief,” Pancho said huskily. “Durned horse thief!”

  “Be still,” Laurie said, turning on the parrot. “You be still!”

  Jeb lifted his heavy head and stared curiously, his head cocked, at the parrot, who looked upon Jeb with almost as much disfavor as the cats.