to Tame a Land (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  To Tame A Land Louis L'amour *

  MY NAME IS RYAN TYLER . . .

  ... And People Say I Killed Twenty-Seven Men. Th e Fact Is, I killed just ten, every man jack of them i n a stand-up, fair fight. And that goes for Indians a s well, though nobody counted Indians in those days.

  Some people say I was all bad. That I killed without reason. That I was an outlaw. They say that n o man has a right to kill another man. That's why I'm writing this all down so you can judge for yourself.

  Nowadays, the know-it-alls say it wasn't reall y wild back in the years when I grew up. Well, record s show one hundred and two murders around Alde r Gulch before vigilantes hanged the outlaw killers.

  Feuds in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona killed a t least five hundred more. There were a hundred an d ten killings in a small town named Alta. The record s go on and on.

  My feeling is my guns and some other guns mad e it easier for those who came later. The cattle roa m fat and lazy now, people sleep well at night. Th e guns are hung up and I think they've got peopl e like me to thank for it.

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS INDIAN COUNTRY, and when our wheel busted , none of them would stop. They just rolled on by and lef t us setting there, my pap and me.

  Me, I was pushing a tall twelve by then and could cus s 'most as good as Pap, and we both done some cussin' then.

  Bagley, the one Pap helped down to Ash Hollow tha t time, he got mighty red around the ears, but he kept hi s wagon rollin'.

  Most folks, those days, were mighty helpful, but thi s outfit sort of set their way by the captain. He was Bi g Jack McGarry.

  When the wheel busted, somebody called out and w e swung back. Big Jack had no liking for Pap because Pa p never took nothing off him, and because Pap had th e first look-in with Mary Tatum, which Big Jack couldn't abide.

  He swung that fine black horse of his back and he se t there looking at us. We had turned to and were gettin g the wheel off, fixing to get it repaired if we could.

  "Sorry, Tyler. You know what I said. This is India n country. Goin' through here, we keep rollin' no matte r what. We'll wait a spell at the springs, though. You ca n catch us there."

  Then he turned his horse and rode off, and nobod y else in the wagons said by word or look that they eve n seen us setting there.

  Pap, he didn't waste no more time. He looked afte r them, his face kind of drawn down and gray like, and the n he turned to me and he said, "Son, I don't mind for myself.

  It's you I'm thinkin' of. But maybe it'll be all right. Yo u take that there gun, and you set up high and watc h sharp."

  So that was the way it was, and Pap aworking to fi x that wheel so we could go on. He was a good man at suc h things, and he had built many a wagon in his day, an d had done some fine cabinetwork, too.

  He worked steady and I kept my eyes open, but ther e was mighty little to see. It was a long rolling grass plai n wherever a body looked. Here and there was draws, but I c ouldn't see into them. The wind stirred that tall grass , bending it over in long rolls, the way the sea must look , and it was green-gray and then silver in the changing ligh t and wind. Overhead the sky was wide and pale blue, wit h just a few lazy clouds adrifting.

  We had us a good Conestoga wagon and six head of cattle, good big oxen, to haul it. We had two horses an d two saddles, and inside the wagon was Pap's tools, ou r grub, bedding, and a few odds and ends like Ma's picture , which Pap kept by him, no matter what.

  Pap had swapped for a couple of Joslyn breech-loadin g carbines before we left Kansas, and we each had us a handgun, Shawk & McLanahan six-shooters, caliber .36, and good guns, too.

  Like McGarry said, this was Indian country. Not tw o weeks ago the Indians had hit a wagon train, smaller tha n ours, killing four men and a woman. They hit it again a few miles west, and they killed two more men.

  Ours was a big train, well armed and all, but Big Jack , I seen the look in his eyes when he sat there watching Pa p aworking. He was just figuring to himself that he wouldn't have to worry any more about Pap, and by the time th e wagons got to Califomy he'd be married up with Mar y Tatum. Her and all that silver her old man carried in th e big box under his wagon.

  When it was almost dark, Pap called to me. "Son, com e on down. You ride your horse, scout around a little. If th e wagons get to stop at the springs, we'll catch 'em."

  But cattle don't make no speed with a heavy wagon.

  Their feet spread wide on turf and they pull better, da y in, day out, than any mule or horse, but they can't be calle d fast.

  Night came, and we set a course by the stars, and w e rolled on west all through the night. When the first gra y light was in the sky, we saw the gleam on the water. Least , I saw it. Pap, he was still too far back.

  I seen the water where the pool was, and the cottonwood leaves, but no white wagon covers, no horses, an d no breakfast fires acooking.

  When the wagon came up I saw Pap looking and looking like he couldn't believe it, and I seen his Adam's apple swallow, and I said, "Pap, they've gone on. The y left us."

  "Yes," he said. "I reckon that's so."

  We both knew we had to stop. Cattle can stand s o much, and these had a tough night and day behind them.

  "We'll water up, son," Pap said. "Then we'll pull int o a draw and rest a while."

  So that was how it was, only when we got to the spring s we saw the wagons had not stopped there. Big Jack McGarry had taken no chances. He pulled them right on by , and nobody to know he'd promised to wait for us there.

  Nobody but him and us.

  We watered up and then we pulled out. Maybe thre e miles farther on we found a draw with some brush an d we pulled into it for a rest. Pap unyoked the oxen and le t them eat buffalo grass. He taken his Joslyn up on the ridg e and bellied down in the grass.

  Me, I went to sleep under the wagon, and maybe I'd been asleep an hour when I felt someone nudge me, an d it was Pap.

  "Here they come, boy. You get on your horse and tak e out." He was down on one knee near me. "Maybe if yo u hold to low ground you can make it safe."

  "I ain't agoin' without you."

  "Son, you go now. One can make it. Two can't. Yo u take Old Blue. He's the fastest."

  "You come with me."

  "No, this here is all we got, boy. I'll stay by it. Mayb e they'll take what sugar we got, and go."

  "I'll stay, too."

  "No!" Pap rarely spoke hard to me after Ma die d but he spoke sharp and stern now, and it wasn't in me to : d ispute him. So I loosed the reins and swung into the saddle.

  Pap passed me up a sackful of cartridges and suc h then caught my arm. There were tears in his eyes. "Luck: b oy. Luck. Remember your ma."

  Then he slapped Old Blue on the rump and Old Blu e went off up the draw. Me, I was in no mind to leave him , so when we rounded a little bend I put Blue up the ban k and circled back.

  I heard a rifle shot and saw dust kick near the wagon , then a whole volley of shots. Along with the rest I hear d the sharp hard sound of Pap's Joslyn carbine.

  Tying Blue among some brush in a low place, I grabbe d my Joslyn and went back, keeping low down.

  Maybe a dozen Indians were out there, and Pap's on e shot had counted, for I saw a free horse running off. A s I looked the Indians began to circle, and Pap fired again.

  An Indian grabbed at his horse's mane and almost slippe d off.

  The sun was out and it was hot. I could smell the hot , dusty grass and feel the sun on my back, and my hand s were sweaty, but I waited.

  Boy though I was, and Pap no Indian fighter, I kne w what I had to do. Night after night I'd sat by the fir e and heard talk of Indian fights and such-like from th e mountain men we met, and a couple of others who ha d been over this tra
il before us. I soaked it up, and I kne w there was a time for waiting and a time for shooting.

  Pap was doing right good. He downed a horse and th e Indians pulled off and away. I lay quiet, having a goo d view of the whole shindig, me being no more than a hundred and fifty yards off.

  Sudden-like, I saw the grass move. They were crawling up now. Did Pap see them?

  No he couldn't see them from where he lay, but he ha d guessed that was what they would do, for I saw him wor m out from behind the wheel where he'd been shooting an d ease off into some rocks not far from the wagon. The y were coming on and right soon I could see four of th e Indians.

  Pap waited. I give him that. He was no Indian fighter , just a good wheelwright and cabinetmaker, but he wa s smart. Suddenly he came up with his carbine and fire d quick. I saw an Indian jerk back with a busted shoulder.

  Then two of them ran forward. Pap fired and missed, an d fired again and hit.

  And then I heard a whisper in the grass and saw fou r Indians walking their horses careful behind him. Behin d him and right below me. They weren't thirty yards of f from me, at point-blank range.

  This here was what I'd waited tor. My mouth so dr y I couldn't spit or swallow, I ups with my Joslyn. I too k steady aim the way I'd been taught, drew a deep breat h and let it out easy, and then I squeezed her off. The rifl e jumped in my hands, and that first Indian let out a grun t and went off his horse and into the grass. I'd shot him righ t through the skull.

  Pap turned quick, fired once, then swung back as I sho t again.

  My second shot took an Indian right through the spine , and the other two went to hellin' away from there.

  My shooting had caught them flat-footed, as the fello w says. They'd figured the man at the wagon was the onl y one, and now I'd killed me two Indians, and all in les s than a minute.

  Another shot, and I turned quick.

  Two Indians had rushed Pap and now they were fighting with him. At the same moment the two I'd run of f circled back. I shot and missed, too excited, and then I s aw Pap go down and saw a knife rise and fall, and I kne w it was too late to do anything for Pap.

  I hustled for Old Blue, jumped into the saddle, an d rode out of there.

  But I didn't head for no settlement, or try to catch u p with the train. That wagon was ours, and the stuff in i t was ours. I circled around, walked my horse a couple o f miles in a creek, then brought him out of the water ont o rock and cut back over the hills.

  It was full dark when I got back there. All was quiet.

  There was no fire, nothing.

  I studied about it some, then decided those Indian s would never figure on me to come back, and once they'd taken what they wanted from the wagon, they'd not sta y around. So I went down, taking it easy. Finally, when Ol d Blue began to get nervous, I tied him to a bush and wen t on alone.

  When I got close I could smell the burned wood. Th e wagon had been set on fire, but it was still there.

  I crawled up closer, and I found Pap. He'd been sho t through, then stabbed. And they'd scalped him.

  Using a match, I hunted through the wagon. They'd looted it, throwing stuff around, taking most of what the y could use. I knew where Pap had kept the forty dollar s in gold he had, and with my knife point I dug it out of a crack in the wood Pap had puttied over.

  They'd set fire to the wagon, all right, but only th e cover had burned. The hoops were some charred, and th e sideboards, but most of the stuff was intact. Pap's too l chest had been busted open, and most of the sharp tool s were gone. The chisels and like that.

  There was a few cents change in Pap's pocket, and I t ook it. He'd be wanting me to have it.

  Then I got the shovel and dug out a grave for him o n the hill, and there I toted his body and buried him, cryin g all the time like a durned girl-baby. Me, who bragge d it up that I never shed no tears.

  On the grave I piled some rocks and on a piece o f board I burned out Pap's name with a hot iron. Then I r ustled around amongst what was left to see what I coul d find.

  There was little enough, but I found Ma's picture.

  Miracle was, it hadn't burned. But it was stuck down i n the Bible and only the edges of the leaves had charred a mite, and the cover. I put Ma's picture in my pocket an d went back to Old Blue.

  The cattle were gone. They'd drove them off and somewhere now they were eating real big.

  Eating . .. eating too much and maybe sleeping. Eating too much and in their own country, and they wouldn't be keeping a guard, maybe.

  The nearest water was where they would head for, an d the nearest water was the springs. I got up on Old Blu e and started walking him back.

  Maybe I was just a fool kid, but those Indians ha d killed Pap and stolen our cattle. I was going to get me a n Indian.

  One more, anyway.

  Chapter 2

  THE NIGHT SMELLED GOOD. There were a million star s in the sky, looked like, and I could feel the soft wind ove r the grass. And on that wind I smelled smoke; woo d smoke, with some smell of bBffalo chips, too.

  Old Blue seemed to know what I was about. He walke d real light and easy on the grass, his ears pricked up. He could smell the smoke, and from the uneasy feel of hi m between my knees, I knew he could smell Indian.

  After a while I got down and tied Old Blue. Then I c rept along, all bent over, and got up close.

  They had a fire that was almost dead, and I coul d see their horses off to one side. They were all asleep, expecting nothing. I could see four oxen still standing, s o they had only eaten two, or most of two.

  Take white men a week to eat an ox, but not Indians.

  They gorged themselves one day, starved the next; tha t was the way of it. Well, one or more had eaten all he wa s ever going to.

  First off I crawled around to where their ponies were.

  Working up close through the grass, I got up and walke d casual-like among them. Maybe because of that, mayb e because I was just a boy, they didn't fret much until I ha d my hand on a tie rope. Then one of them blew lou d through his nostrils.

  And when he done that, I slashed the picket ropes wit h my pocket knife, first one, then another. Then I yelle d and two of the horses done what I'd hoped. They ran ful l tilt into that Indian camp. I held my fire until I sa w Indians scrambling up, and then I shot.

  I shot three times as fast as I could trigger that Joslyn.

  Then I hauled out my old Shawk & McLanahan .36 and , running up close, I fired three times more.

  Two Indians were down, one of them holding his belly.

  Another was staggering with a bullet through his leg. Bu t that was enough. I turned and got out of there almight y fast. When I was a distance away, I circled around to Ol d Blue.

  Once in the saddle, I headed off across country. Twic e I came up to Indian ponies from the bunch I'd stampede d and started them moving again.

  All night I rode on, heading west along the trac k of the wagons. Come day, I found a place high on a hil l where there was a sort of hollow. I picketed Old Blu e and stretched out on my back.

  The sun woke me up, shining right in my face. I go t up on Old Blue again and headed west. Next day I kille d a buffalo calf. Here and there I found some wild onions , and I ate the buffalo meat without salt.

  It was like that for a week. Finally I got so I rod e mostly at night, using the stars to travel by, as Pap ha d shown me. Indians don't travel by night much, and the y don't like night fighting, so it was safer. By day I'd hole u p and keep out of sight. Twice I saw Indians, but not u p close, and none of them saw me.

  Twice I found burned wagons, but they were old fire s of wagons burned long ago.

  I rode west. I saw the grass plains left behind and hig h mountains roll up, and sometimes I saw buffalo, and lot s of antelope. I was sparing of my ammunition, and I neve r tried any long shots. Usually I'd work in close and try t o cut out a buffalo calf. The old cows were mighty fractious , and sometimes I'd kill one of them, usually with th e pistol, at close range
.

  But there was meat, and there were always onions. Onc e I caught me a mess of fish and fried them in buffalo fa t for my meal.

  There were beaver streams, and more and more trees o n the mountains, and the country became rougher.

  It was two weeks before I caught up with the wago n train, even though I could travel faster than they. Tw o weeks because I'd taken time out to hunt for grub, an d because they had a good two-day start on me. Also, I wa s riding mighty careful. I didn't want my hair hanging i n no Arapaho wickiup.

  When at last I saw the wagon train it was in Sout h Pass. Old Blue carried me down out of the hills and I too k him at a lope across the grassy valley that lies betwee n the Sweetwater Mountains and the Wind River Range.

  The wagons stretched out, white and long, the horseme n rode alongside, and a lump came up in my throat when I t hought of Pap and his wagon. He could have been here , too, if they'd stopped to wait. Right then I hated every on e of them, but most of all I hated Big Jack McGarry.

  It was Bagley I saw first. His face went kind of whit e when he saw me. "Rye!" he said. "Where's your Pap?"

  Wagons drew up and several riders started toward me.

  McGarry started back from the head of the wagon train.

  "He's dead," I told them, tears starting into my eyes.

  "He's dead, and you all killed him. You could hav e waited."

  "Waited? Where?" Bagley was angry. "Risk our families? What you talkin' of, boy?"

  "McGarry said you'd wait at the springs. He told Pa p that. We got to the springs right quick, and you all didn't even stop."

  There was a slim, wiry man in buckskins setting a blac k horse there, and he looked at me. "Boy, are you sure Bi g Jack promised to wait at the springs?"

  "I'm damn sure!"

  Big Jack came up then and pushed his horse throug h the circle. "Here! What's this? You're holdin' up the .. .

  Oh, it's you."

  You didn't need to look close to see he wasn't happ y to see me. His face showed mighty plain that he had neve r expected us to come through . . . and only one of us had.

  The slim man in buckskins looked over at Big Jack.