L'Amour, Louis - SSC 32

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 3

  Then she turned on him. “Well, who would you want for foreman?”

  He grinned. “Why, this new man. Danny would do. The boys like him.”

  “Oh, no! Not him!”

  She accepted a cup of coffee and watched Hoey come riding up to the fire. He looked angry and he swung down from the saddle; then he walked over to her.

  “Look,” he said, “finding this grass an’ water is a break, but I happen to know there isn’t much of it. You are only halfway to Dodge and have rough country and trouble ahead. There’s no need to make this drive. I’ll buy your herd.”

  “You?” she was startled. “Why?” She looked up at him, puzzled. “For how much?”

  “Four dollars a head. Right here and now. In cash.”

  “Four dollars?” She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous! They will bring five times that in Dodge.”

  “If they are fat. If they get there. But what if you lose three or four hundred head?”

  Laredo Lee stood silent, watching Ruth with keen eyes. He wanted to speak, but was wise enough to know it was not the time. This was Ruth Gurney’s problem. A moment later Lee was stifling his grin in the coffee cup.

  “No, Hoey,” she replied calmly, “I’ll not quit now. These cattle started for Dodge and they will go to Dodge. My father never quit a trail drive in his life, and I won’t.”

  Ives’s face hardened and grew impatient. “Ruth, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ into! Why, we haven’t hit the hard part yet! There’s Kiowas and Comanches up ahead, and that’s to say nothin’ of the rustlers.”

  “Boss,” Lee spoke softly, “Mr. Ives ain’t been over a trail with the G afore. He don’t know how we are.” The blue eyes were deceptively mild now as they looked at Hoey. “The G,” he explained, “figures it’s plumb salty. Why, we welcome a little brush with Indians. As for rustlers, we eat ‘em up! The old man,” he added affectionately, “liked a good fight. Last couple of drives he put most of that on Lonigan’s shoulders.”

  “Well,” Ives snapped, “Lonigan ain’t here now! If he was,” he sneered so openly that Ruth looked at him in surprise, “he couldn’t do much!”

  “Maybe,” a new voice said, “you’re right. Again, maybe you’re not.”

  All turned. Calkins had come up, and several of the other hands, but it was Danny Lonigan who spoke. He stood alone in the middle of a little open space near the wagon, a tall young man, narrow in the hips and wide in the shoulder. He stood with his boots together, one knee slightly bent, his hands busied with rolling a cigarette.

  Hoey Ives stared. Slowly, doubt, dismay, and uncertainty colored his features. “Who’ve you?” he demanded.

  “Why, you remember me, Hoey,” Lonigan said quietly, “I whupped the socks off you one time at a dance. That was afore you went away. You were trailin’ with that big Casselman then, an’ figured it made you some tough. You’ll recall it didn’t help you none.”

  Ives’s lips tightened and his eyes grew cold. “So you came back, did you? Well, I’m the boss here now. You work for the G, you work for me.”

  “No,” Lonigan said quietly, “I work for the lady boss. She’s the Circle G, Ives, and from the way she stopped you on that offer to buy her out, I reckon she’ll do to ride the river with. The old man,” he said, “evidently bred true. I’ll ride for her, Ives. Not for you.”

  “I reckon that speaks my piece,” Laredo Lee interposed quietly.

  “And mine,” Calkins said.

  Hoey Ives’s face flushed. Then he laughed, “Well, that’s fine! I wanted to be rid of you! I’ve got a bunch of boys ready to take over, and I’ll have them in here by sundown. You boys can pack your duffle and hit the trail.”

  “No.” Ruth Gurney spoke in a clear, definite voice. All eyes turned to her. “Calkins told me something the other day that I’ve been thinking of. He said it was the hands that made the brand, the men who fought for it, worked for it, bled for it. They had a stake in the brand, and it was something above and beyond ownership. I believe that.

  “Hoey, I’m sorry. You’ll have to step out of your job. I want you with us, but not in charge of the work. I’ve made my decision and I’ll abide by it.”

  She turned her head. “Calkins, you take over. You’re the foreman for the rest of the drive.”

  “But … ?”

  Calkins started to protest when Lonigan cut him short. “Take it,” he said briefly. “Let’s move!”

  “All right,” Calkins said, pointing, “roll the wagon into that hollow under the cliff. We’ll bed down here and roll ‘em up the trail tomorrow.”

  Hoey Ives turned abruptly and stalked angrily away. Ruth took a step as though to follow, then turned back to the wagon. Her eyes met those of Lonigan. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” she demanded impatiently. “I’d heard of you.”

  “What could I have said?” he shrugged. “Anyway, I’m with the drive again, and workin’ with the G.” He glanced at her quizzically. “Or am I?”

  “Ask Calkins,” she returned sharply. “He does the hiring!”

  Throughout the day she saw no more of Ives, although she knew he was about. The hands rested when they were not riding herd, all but Danny Lonigan. He cleaned his guns carefully, then his rifle. After that he went to work and repaired a wooden bucket that had been broken a day before, and mended a halter. Several times he mounted and rode up to the rim of the canyon and sat there, studying the country.

  Calkins stopped by her seat just before sundown. “What do you think, Calkins? Will we get the herd through?”

  He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up, but I think so. Maybe this grass won’t hold, but we’ll chance it, although come rain we’d have to get to high ground. If there’s much of this grass, we’ll make it, all right. But it will be a tough squeeze and you won’t make much money.”

  Lonigan walked slowly over to them, and as he drew near, he removed his sombrero. “Ma’am,” he said, “I couldn’t but overhear what was said. If … if you’ll let me make a suggestion …”

  “I hope,” Ruth said with dignity, “that I am always open to suggestions. Yes, you may. What is it?”

  “Why, just don’t sell your herd atall!” he said calmly. “Hang onto it. You’re gettin’ to Dodge at the bad end of the season; prices will be down and your herd in plumb bad shape. I’d say, hold your cows until next spring, hold em on Nebraska grass, then fetch ‘em back to market, fat as ticks.”

  Ruth Gurney shook her head. “It is a good suggestion,” she admitted, “but I can’t. Until I sell this herd I can’t pay any of you. And I owe mortgage on the ranch.”

  Lonigan shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Ma’am, I know an hombre in Dodge who knows a good deal when he sees it. He’ll advance the money and take a mortgage on your herd. You can pay up when you sell out. You’ll have fat stock and the first market in the spring. Believe me, you’ll get twice what you could get with a good herd now, let alone this scrawny lot. And you’ll have calves,” he added.

  “Excellent idea,” Hoey Ives said quietly. He had come up unobserved. “In fact, that was what I planned to do … and what I’ll still do.”

  Four men were ranged behind him, four men with rifles. Two more stood by the wagon, facing toward the herd. While the riders had watched for horsemen they had slipped up on foot, working their way through the brush like Indians. Lonigan’s eyes went to the rifles, then the riflemen.

  “You’re tryin’ to get yourself killed, Hoey. Now take your boys and light a shuck.”

  Ives chuckled. “Oh, no! We’ve got our herd. When your boys hear us call, they’ll come in. They’ll never know what hit em!”

  “You mean, ‘ Danny Lonigan’s voice was casual, “like this?” His hands flashed for his guns, and for one startled instant, every man froze. Then as one person, Ruth dropped to the ground and Ives, Calkins, and Lee grabbed iron.

  It was Lonigan’s sudden move that decided it. His first two shots knocked Casselman staggerin
g and his third dropped Shain dead in his tracks.

  “Drop it, Short!” Lonigan yelled, and switched both guns to Papago Brown. Then, suddenly, it was all over and where the cannonade of guns had sounded there was stillness, and somewhere down the valley, a quail called plaintively in the late dusk. Gunpowder left an acrid smell that mingled with the wood smoke of the freshly built fire.

  Danny Lonigan looked down at Hoey Ives. Caught in the crossfire of Calkins’s and Lee’s guns, he had been riddled with bullets before he could more than fire his first shot. Ruth, lying on her face, had a rifle on the two startled men near the wagon. The cook held an old muzzle-loading Civil War rifle on them, too.

  Calkins swore softly. “You oughta give a man warnin’, Lonigan,” he objected. “That was too sudden. They might have got us all!”

  “Nuh-uh,” Lonigan said quietly. “You see, I noticed that they were depending on the warning of the rifles. They didn’t really expect anybody to take a chance. You see,” he grinned grimly, “I noticed that none of their rifles were cocked! I knew I could get off several shots before they could cock and aim again.”

  “Yeah,” Laredo said, “and what about Ives? What did you think he’d be doin’?”

  “What he is doin’,” Lonigan said quietly. “You see, I’ve rode the trail with you hombres before. Nobody needed to tell me what would happen. I knew.”

  He turned his head and looked at Olin Short. “You,” he said, “would have sided me to help Miss Gurney in the cabin that night. I didn’t want to kill you. Get your horse and slope. Take those others with you. And don’t let ‘em cross the trail again. As for you, Short, at heart you’re too good a man for an outlaw. If you’re down in Texas, stop by the G.”

  When he was gone, Lonigan turned to Ruth, who had got shakily to her feet, keeping her eyes averted from the fallen men. Taking her arm, he led her away from them, and away from the fire.

  “We’ll do what you said,” Ruth said finally. “We’ll drive to Nebraska and feed the stock there. Would you,” she hesitated, “would you consider the foreman’s job? I mean, in Calkins’s place?”

  “Why, no, I wouldn’t.”

  She turned toward him, half in surprise, half in regret. “No, I like Calkins, and he’ll make a good foreman. The men like him, too. Besides, I’ve other plans.”

  “Oh.”

  The word sounded empty and alone. “I … I hoped we’d see more of each other. You see, Dad …”

  “We’ll see more of each other, a lot more. When you put Hoey out as foreman and Calkins in, and again when you hit ground and grabbed that rifle, you showed what I said was right, that the old man bred true. You got what he had. You’ve nerve; you’ve iron in you. It’s a line that should be carried on, so I’m not goin’ to be your foreman. I’m goin’ to marry you.”

  She blinked. “Just like that? Without any …”

  “Courtin?’ He grinned. “Ma’am, there’s no preacher this side of Dodge. Believe me, by the time you get there you’ll be well courted, or my name ain’t Lonigan!”

  “Don’t I get a chance to say yes or no?” she protested.

  “You can say yes,” he said, “if you say it fast, but for the next thirty minutes you’re goin’ to be busy.”

  He put her chin up and his arm around her. “Mighty busy,” he said softly.

  Somewhere down the valley a quail called plaintively into the darkness, and the stream chuckled over the stones. It probably had considerable to chuckle about.

  Lit a Shuck for Texas

  The Sandy Kid slid the roan down the steep bank into the draw and fast walked it over to where Jasper Wald sat his big iron-gray stallion. The Kid, who was nineteen and new to this range, pulled up a short distance from his boss. That gray stallion was mighty near as mean as Wald himself.

  “Howdy, Boss! Look what I found back over in that rough country east of here.”

  Wald scowled at the rock the rider held out. “I ain’t payin’ yuh to hunt rocks,” he declared. “You get back there in the breaks roundin’ up strays like I’m payin’ yuh for.”

  “I figgered yuh’d be interested. I reckon this here’s gold.”

  “Gold?” Wald’s laugh was sardonic, and he threw a contemptuous glance at the cowhand. “In this country? Yuh’re a fool!”

  The Sandy Kid shoved the rock back in his chaps pocket and swung his horse back toward the brush, considerably deflated. Maybe it was silly to think of finding gold here, but that rock sure enough looked it, and it was heavy. He reckoned he’d heard somewhere that gold was a mighty heavy metal.

  When he was almost at the edge of the badlands, he saw a steer heading toward the thick brush, so he gave the roan a taste of the diggers and spiked his horse’s tail after the steer. That old ladino could run like a deer, and it headed out for those high rocks like a tramp after a chuck wagon, but when it neared the rocks, the mossyhorn ducked and, head down, cut off at right angles, racing for the willows.

  Beyond the willows was a thicket of brush, rock, and cactus that made riding precarious and roping almost suicidal, and once that steer got into the tangle beyond he was gone. The Kid shook out a loop and hightailed it after the steer, but it was a shade far for good roping when he made his cast.

  Even at that, he’d have made it, but just as his rope snagged the steer, the roan’s hoof went into a gopher hole, and the Sandy Kid sailed right off over the roan’s ears. As he hit the ground all in a lump, he caught a glimpse of the ladino. Wheeling around, head down with about four or five feet of horn, it started for him.

  With a yelp, the Kid grabbed for his gun, but it was gone, so he made a frantic leap for a cleft in the ground. Even as he rolled into it, he felt the hot breath of the steer, or thought he did. The steer went over the cleft, scuffling dust down on the cowboy. When the Kid looked around, he saw he was lying in a crack that was about three feet wide and at least thirty feet deep. He had landed on a ledge that all but closed off the crack for several feet.

  Warily he eased his head over the edge and then jerked back with a gasp, for the steer was standing, red-eyed and mean, not over ten feet away and staring right at him. Digging out the makings, the Kid rolled a cigarette. After all, why get cut up about it? The steer would go away after a while, and then it would be safe to come out. In the meantime it was mighty cool here and pleasant enough, what with the sound of falling water and all.

  The thought of water reminded the Kid that he was thirsty. He studied the situation and decided that with care he could climb to the bottom without any danger. Once down where the water was, he could get a drink. He was not worried, for when he had looked about he had seen his horse, bridle reins trailing, standing not far away. The roan would stand forever that way.

  His six-gun, which had been thrown from his holster when he fell, also lay up there on the grass. It was not over twenty feet from the rim of the crevice, and once it was in his hand, it would be a simple thing to knock off that steer. Getting the pistol was quite another thing. With that steer on the prod, it would be suicide to try.

  When he reached the bottom of the crevice he peered around in the vague light. At noon, or close to that, it would be bright down here, but at any other time it would be thick with shadows. Kneeling by the thin trickle of water, the Kid drank his fill. Lifting his face from the water, he looked downstream and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a grinning skull.

  The Sandy Kid was no pilgrim. He had fought Apaches and Comanches, and twice he had been over the trail to Dodge. But seeing a skull grinning at him from a distance of only a few feet did nothing to make him feel comfortable and at ease.

  “By grab, looks like I ain’t the first to tumble into this place,” he said. “That hombre must have broken a leg and starved to death.”

  Yet when he walked over and examined the skeleton, he could see he was wrong. The man had been shot through the head. Gingerly, the Kid moved the skull. There was a hole on the other side, too, and a bullet flattened against the rock. He was aston
ished.

  “Well, now! Somebody shot this hombre while he laid here,” the Kid decided.

  Squatting on his haunches, the Sandy Kid puffed his cigarette and studied the situation. Long experience in reading sign had made it easy for his eyes to see what should be seen. A few things he noticed now. This man already wounded, had fallen or been pushed into the crack, and then a man with a gun had leaned over the edge above and shot him through the bar head!

  There was a notch in his belt that must have been cut by a bullet, and one knee had been broken by a bullet, for the slug was still there, embedded in the joint. The Kid was guessing about the notch, but from the look of things and the way the man was doubled up, it looked like he had been hurt pretty bad aside from the knee. The shirt was gone except for a few shreds, and among the rocky debris there were a few buttons, an old pocketknife, and some coins. The boots, dried and stiff, were not a horseman’s boots, but the high-topped, flat-heeled type that miners wear. A rusted six-shooter lay a bit further downstream, and the Kid retrieved it. After a few minutes he determined that the gun was still fully loaded.

  “Prob’ly never got a shot at the skunk,” the Sandy Kid said thoughtfully. “Well, now! Ain’t this a purty mess?”

  When he studied the skeleton further, he noticed something under the ribs that he had passed over, thinking it a rock. Now he saw it was a small leather sack which the dead man had evidently carried inside his shirt. The leather was dry and stiff, and it ripped when he tried to open it. Within were several fragments of the same ore the Kid had himself found!

  Tucking the samples and the remnants of the sack under a rocky ledge, the Kid stuck the rusty six-shooter in his belt and climbed back to the ledge, where a cautious look showed that the ladino was gone. The roan pricked up its ears and whinnied, not at all astonished that this peculiar master of his should come crawling out of the ground.

  The Kid had lost his rope, which was probably still trailing from the steer’s horns, but he was not thinking of that. He was thinking of the murdered man.

  When he awakened the next morning he rolled over on his side and stared around the bunkhouse. Everyone was still asleep, and then he realized that it was Sunday. Wald was nowhere around when the Kid headed for the cookshack. Smoke was rising slowly, for Cholly Cooper, the best cook on that range, was conscientious. When you wanted breakfast you got it, early or late.