L'Amour, Louis - SSC 32

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 3

  Beaure studied the situation and liked it none at all. Of course, Naley could break up the old stable out there. Not that there was much wood, except in the lean-to.

  He leaned over and tossed a couple of pieces of broken board on the fire.

  “Looks like the Dutchman should be here,” Beaure commented thoughtfully. “This is the only shelter anywhere around.”

  Naley turned angrily. “Shut your mouth!” He laid a hand on his gun. For an instant Beaure felt a cold that was not from the winter storm. Naley was on a hair trigger in that instant, and prepared to kill him.

  Nora got up.

  The movement distracted Naley and he glanced at her, then swung his eyes quickly back to Beaure, who had remained where he was.

  “It’s going to be a cold night,” Beaure said. “We’d all better be thinking about that.”

  It was at least ten degrees below zero. He thought of the horse out there in the stable. It would be warmer than they were, for it was a tight, well-built old building of adobe, and heavily thatched. Now it was covered with snow and snow had drifted against the walls. The horse would be warm enough.

  The big old house was too high in the ceiling, and the rooms were big and hard to heat.

  The noise was faint … but they all heard it. A faint call in the momentary lull of the wind.

  Naley swore and turned swiftly to the window, peering out into the storm. When he turned from the window, he said, “Somebody’s out there. If it’s that damn Dutchman, I’ll—!”

  Beaure felt a sudden panic. Who could it be? Whoever it was would walk in out of the cold right into Naley’s gun, and Beaure knew suddenly that Naley was through debating; he was primed and ready. A passerby stopping in for shelter might have been the salvation that they were hoping for—after all, how many people did Naley think he was going to kill?—but now Beaure had set him up to think that the toughest hombre in the county was about to come through the door. Whoever it was, really, was about to be shot down without ceremony.

  Unwittingly, Beaure had put the newcomer in a trap. Expecting only shelter, he would walk right into a bullet.

  Naley was facing the door and waiting.

  Beaure felt sick. He should have known that his argument that the Dutchman would work Smoky Draw was a good one. He was just the man who would be given the job; he was that dependable. He glanced at Nora and she was looking at him. He turned his eyes back to Naley. He was going to have to try. He might get killed, but it was the only chance for all of them.

  Naley moved a step toward the door, squaring himself a little for it. Suddenly there was a stamping on the porch outside, as somebody knocked the snow from his boots.

  Naley eared back the gun hammer, and the click was loud in the room. At the same instant, the knob started to turn and Beaure threw himself at Naley.

  The big man turned like a cat, firing as he turned. The hammer was back and the slightest pressure fired the gun— an instant before it was lined up on Beaure Hatch. And then Beaure hit him. .

  He hit him in a long dive, his hands grabbing for a hold. Naley clubbed with the gun, and fell back, off balance. Before he could bring the gun down in a line with Beaure, the young cowpuncher jumped, grasping the wrist with both hands and smashing it hard against the wall.

  The gun fell, and both men got up. Naley circled toward the gun and Beaure went into him, taking a smashing blow over the eye. Surprisingly, the blow did not hurt as much as he expected. Beaure swung his own fist and caught Naley at the angle of the jaw. The big man bobbed his head, and Beaure spread his legs wide and cut loose with two roundhouse swings.

  Naley staggered, and then Beaure closed in, taking another punch but landing both fists.

  “All right, Beaure. Let him alone.”

  It was Abram Tebbets, and he was holding a six-shooter on Hugo Naley.

  Beaure backed off, breathing hard and sucking a bloody knuckle.

  Tebbets stepped forward and scooped Naley’s gun from the floor.

  “He’s got my gun under his coat,” Beaure said. Tebbets stepped in, whipped open the coat with his left hand, and took the gun. He was deft, sure, capable.

  “You sure handle that gun like you know how,” Beaure said. Abram Tebbets glanced at him. “I studied law while I was marshal of a cow town,” he said, “and I was six years in the Army, fighting Indians.”

  Beaure walked over to Nora. “Are you all right?” •

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “Will you forgive me for all the trouble I’ve caused?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m just glad this all worked out. I was afraid my talking about the Dutchman nearly got Mr. Tebbets killed,” Beaure said. “I was just a-yarning, hoping to worry him.”

  “You did all right,” Nora said.

  “You know, it’s funny you mentioned him,” Tebbets commented. “He broke a leg early this morning and will be laid up for the winter. The Seventy-Seven foreman was in town looking for you. If you want it, you have a job.”

  Beaure knelt and added fuel to the fire. It looked like they were going to have to tear down that lean-to, after all.

  “I’ll stay/’ he said, glancing around at Nora. “Seems like I’m just getting acquainted.”

  Beaure felt gingerly of his face, where it was puffed from a blow. “Thing that surprises me,” he commented, “Naley didn’t punch near so hard as that mule skinner up in Gillette.”

  THERE’S ALWAYS A TRAIL

  He sat on a bale of hay against the wall of the livery stable and listened to them talk. He was a lean, leather-skinned man with bleak eyes and a stubble of beard on his jaw. He was a stranger in Pagosa, and showed no desire to get acquainted.

  “It’s an even bet he’s already dead,” Hardin said, “there would be no reason to keep him alive once they had the money.”

  “Dead or alive, it means we’re finished! That was all the money we could beg, borrow, or steal.”

  “Leeds was killed?” Hardin asked. He was a burly man with a hard red face. Now his blue eyes showed worry. “Then he can’t tell us a thing!”

  “That s just the trouble!” Causey said. “We haven’t a clue! Salter starts to town from our ranch with our fifteen thousand dollars and Bill Leeds along as bodyguard. Leeds is dead, two shots fired from his gun, and Salter is gone.”

  “It’s a cinch Salter didn’t take our money,” Hardin said, “because he would have shot Leeds down from behind. Salter knew Leeds was good with a gun, and he’d never have taken a chance.”

  “Jake Salter isn’t that sort of man,” Bailey protested. “He’s a good man. Dependable.”

  The stranger in the dusty black hat crossed one knee over the other. “Anybody trailin’ them?” His voice had a harsh, unused sound.

  Hardin glanced around, noticing him for the first time. “There isn’t any trail. Whoever done it just dropped off the edge of the earth. We hunted for a trail. The body of Bill Leeds was lyin’ on the road to town, and that was all there was!”

  “There’s always a trail, but you aren’t going to get your money back if you stand around talkin’ about it. Why not scout around? There’s always some sign left.”

  “Hunt where?” Hunt asked irritably. “A man’s got to have a place to start. There’s no trail, I said!”

  The stranger’s eyes were bored but patient. Slowly, he got to his feet. “If I’d lost that money, I’d go after it.” He turned on his heel and started along the street toward the Star Saloon.

  “Wait a minute! Hold on there!” Cass Bailey said. “Hey! Come back here!”

  The man turned and walked slowly back. The others were looking at Bailey, surprised. “What’s your name, friend?” Bailey asked.

  “There’s places they’ve said I was right handy, so just call me that, Handy.”

  “All right, Handy. You’ve done some talking. You said if that was your money you’d go after it. Well, four thousand of that money happens to be mine, and it represents every head of beef
that was fit to sell on the CB range. As of now, half that money is yours, if you can get it. You lost two thousand dollars in the holdup, so now we’ll see whether you’re going to find a trail or not.”

  Handy stuck his thumbs behind his belt. “You said if you lost that money you were through, finished. Is that right?”

  “It ain’t only me,” Bailey said. “We’re all through if we don’t get our money back.”

  “All right, Bailey, I like the way you talk. I’ll accept that two thousand on one consideration. If I get it back it buys me a full partnership in your CB range.”

  Hardin jumped up. “Well of all the — !”

  Cass Bailey stood, feet apart, hands on his hips, staring at Handy. Obviously, the man was a rider. There was something about his hard assurance that Bailey liked. “If you can get that money back, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Find me a place to sleep,” Handy said. “I’ll be along in a few days.”

  Handy turned away and walked along to the Star Saloon and ordered a beer. He took a swallow of the beer then put the glass back on the bar.

  “Too bad about Leeds,” the bartender suggested. He was a lean, loose-mouthed man with straw-colored hair and watery eyes.

  “Too bad about Salter, too. Probably they’ll kill him. That will be hard on his family.”

  “Salter? He’s got no family. At least none that anybody knows of.”

  “What about his woman?”

  “You know about her, huh? From all I hear, Maria won’t do any frettin’. That Maria, she’s a case, Maria is. She sure had ol’ Jake danglin’. He was all worked up over her. Every time he saw her he acted like he’d been kicked in the head.”

  “Maria? Is she over at Cherry Hill?”

  “Cherry Hill? You must be thinkin’ of somebody else. There’s nobody like Maria! They tell me those Spanish are somethin’ special. Never knew one, m’self.”

  Handy finished his beer and strolled outside. Cass Bailey was nowhere in sight, but Handy had no sooner appeared on the boardwalk than a storm descended upon him. It was five feet, three inches of storm, and shaped to make disaster inviting.

  Ann Bailey. Her hair was red, and there was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and what were probably very lovely lips were drawn into a thin line as her boot heels clackity-clacked down the walk toward him. “Listen, you! If you’re the one who sold my dad a bill of goods and got him to give up half his ranch — ! Why you no-good fish-eatin’ crow-bait, I’ve a notion to knock your eyes out!”

  “You’ve already done that, ma’am. But what’s the trouble? Don’t you want your money back?”

  “Want it back? Of course, I want it back! But you’ve no right to talk my old man into any such deal as that! Besides, what makes you think you can get it back? Unless you’re one of the outlaws who stole it!”

  “Do you live on the ranch?” he asked mildly.

  “Where else would I live? In a gopher hole?”

  “Ain’t no tellin’, ma’am, although if you did, that gopher would feel mighty crowded. Still an’ all, I can see where makin’ my home on the CB might be right nice.” He stepped into the street and tightened the cinch on the evil-eyed buckskin who stood at the rail looking unpleasant. “Ma’am, I like my eggs over, my bacon not quite crisp, and my coffee black and strong. You just be expectin’ me now!”

  Handy reined the buckskin around and loped away down the street, followed by some language that, while not profane, certainly made profanity unnecessary. “Spirit, he told the buckskin, that’s what I like!”

  The buckskin laid back his ears and told himself, “You just wait until the next frosty morning, cowhand, and I’ll show you spirit!”

  Hondo could have doubled for Pagosa, except that the Star Saloon was two doors further along the street and was called the Remuda, probably because they played so much stud. The bartender was fat, round, and pink-cheeked. He was also, by looks and sound, very definitely an Irishman. “I’m not one of the fighting Irish,” he said, “I’m one of the loving Irish, and I like the girls when they’re fair, fat, and forty.”

  “You wouldn’t like Maria, then,” Handy commented. “I hear she’s slim, dark, and twenty.”

  “Don’t you get any ideas, cowboy. Maria’s spoken for. Her time’s taken. Anyway, from a mere sideline observer I’d guess that twenty was a shade closer to thirty. But she’s spoken for.”

  “I heard about Salter,” Handy said.

  The bartender’s smile was tolerant, the smile of one who knows. “That’s what Salter thinks! Maria is Buck Rodd’s girl. She lets Salter hang around because he buys her things, and that’s all it amounts to.

  “Believe me,” the bartender took a quick glance around the empty room and lowered his voice, “if she’s smart she won’t try any funny business with Buck Rodd!”

  “Heard of him,” said Handy, who hadn’t, “and that crowd he runs with.”

  “You’ll be liable to hear more before the day’s over, if you stay in town. Buck rode in last night with that whole crowd, Shorty Hazel, Wing Mathy, Gan Carrero, and some other gent.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Handy said, finishing his beer. “I never heard of Maria. I’ll stick to blondes when I’m in Hondo.”

  The bartender chuckled agreement and Handy went outside, where he found a chair and settled down to doze away what remained of the afternoon.

  “The trouble with folks,” Handy mused, “is they make it hard for themselves. A man leaves more than one kind of a trail. If you can’t find the tracks that shows where he went you can nearly always backtrack him to where he came from. Then it usually comes down to one of them ‘searches la fammy’ deals like that tenderfoot was explainin’ down at El Paso. If you’re huntin’ a man, he said, look for the woman. It makes sense, it surely does.”

  Three horsemen fast-walked their horses to the hitchrail near his own, and swung down. The slim, dark one would probably he Carrero, the one with the short leg would be Wing Mathy, and the one with the hard face and sand-colored hair would be Shorty Hazel.

  Handy built himself a cigarette, innocently unaware of the three. The two guns he wore took their attention, but he did not look around when one of them muttered something to the others. Wing Mathy stepped up on the boardwalk.

  “Hey? Ain’t you from the Live Oak country?”

  “I might be,” Handy said, “but I could be from Powder River or Ruby Hills. So might you, but I ain’t askin.”

  Mathy smiled. “I ain’t askin, friend. It s just that you looked familiar.”

  The three went inside and as the door swung to, Handy heard Wing say, “I’ve seen that gent somewhere. I know I have!” Handy looked down at the cigarette. He rarely smoked, and didn’t really want this one. It had been something to keep his fingers busy. He dropped it to the boardwalk, careful it did not go through to the debris below, and rubbed it out with his boot-toe. He was on the trail of something, but just what he,was not sure. Right about now Buck Rodd was probably seeing Maria. At least, he might be.

  Most people, when they went to chasing outlaws, spent too much time wearing horses out. He found it much more simple to follow the trails from a chair, even though he’d spent the largest part of his life in a saddle. What had become of Jake Salter? That was the next problem, and just where was the money? Jake Salter was out of his skull over Maria, and Maria was Buck Rodd’s girl. Jake Salter, trying to impress her with how big a man he was, might have mentioned carrying all that money. She would surely have told Buck Rodd. There is very little, after all, that is strange about human behavior. All the trails were blazed long, long ago.

  Handy led his horse to the livery stable. Livery stables, he had discovered, were like barber shops. There was always a lot of talk around, and if a man listened he could pick up a good deal. He led the buckskin inside, bought it a night’s keep for two bits, and began giving the surprised horse a rubdown. The buckskin was a little uncertain as to the proper reaction to such a procedure. Upon those pa
st occasions when he had been rubbed down it was after a particularly gruelling time on the trail, but on this day he had done practically nothing. He was gratified by the rubdown, but felt it would only be in character to bite, kick, or act up somehow. However, even when preoccupied, as he was now, Handy rarely gave him opportunities. The buckskin relaxed, but the idea stayed with him.

  For two days Handy had idled about the livery stable in Pagosa before coming here, so he knew that Salter owned a little spread over on the Seco. The brand was the Lazy S. A few minutes now sufficed to show there was no Lazy S horse in the stable, but he waited, and he listened. As night settled down he saddled the buckskin again and strolled outside. The night was softly dark, the stars hanging so low it seemed a tall man might knock them down with a stick.

  Handy sat down on a bench against the stable wall. A lazy-fingered player plucked a haphazard tune from a piano in the saloon up the street. Occasionally the player sang a few bars, a plaintive cow country song born some centuries ago on the plains of Andalusia, in far-off Spain. Nothing stirred. Once there was a burst of laughter from the saloon, and occasionally he could hear the click of poker chips.

  Down the street a door opened, letting a shaft of lamplight into the darkness. A big man swaggered out. The door closed, and Handy could hear the jingle of spurs and boot heels on the boardwalk, and then, in the light from over the swinging doors of the Reiauda, Handy saw a big man enter. He wore a black hat and a black shirt, and his handle-bar mustache was sweeping and black.

  Buck Rodd. Handy arose and rubbed a finger along the stubble of beard. It was no way in which to call on a lady. Still… he walked down the opposite side of the street from the saloon and turned in at the gate from which Rodd had emerged. Hesitating to step up on the porch, he walked around to the side, past the rose bushes that grew near the window. He could see the woman inside; no longer a girl, but all woman, Maria looked like someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it.

  Handy Indian-toed it to the back door and tried the canvas covered outer door. It opened under his hand; It was warmer inside, and the air was close. There was a smell of food, and over it, of coffee. He moved toward the lighted door and stopped as Maria framed herself there. Her breath caught, but she made no other sound.