Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Suddenly his eye caught a gleam of starlight on metal. He dropped his staff and reached down and picked up his rifle. Next to it lay his hat. He put it on his sore head gingerly.

  Luck … pure luck. Now, if only his horse was still there!

  Why not? He had tied the knot pretty tight, and the hiding place had been good. Moreover, they had been in a hurry, thinking only of killing him and getting on with their dirty plot.

  Everything was different in the dark. He listened. Far off, in a tree near the stream, he could hear a mockingbird, awake for some reason at this hour. Had it been disturbed by someone besides himself?

  He crouched near a boulder, wiping the dirt from his rifle with his hands. If the muzzle were stopped up, the gun might explode in his hands. He wanted to tap it against a boulder but worried about the sound it would make, an unnatural sound in the night, if anybody was listening.

  He felt on the ground for a small twig, found one, tested the gun muzzle. It seemed to be clear of obstruction.

  He knew about where his horse had been. By now of course it might have broken free and gone back to Laramie. Then Brennan would probably be hunting him by daylight or soon after. But would he? How well did he know Brennan, after all, and had not Brennan one thousand dollars he had promised to Cris Mayo?

  He shrugged. He had a feeling that Brennan would be looking, when he knew that his prizefighter had vanished.

  Cris was wary of the night. How many times had he crouched so, and listened? Not only for the gamekeeper, either, for there had been other enemies. He listened, straining his ears for the slightest sound.

  Nothing… .

  He straightened to his feet and carrying the rifle under his arm he limped toward where he believed his horse to be. Yet all was different. Landmarks seen by day are too often invisible by night, and the trees he had selected yesterday had merged with each other in the blackness. He went a short way, moving as quietly as he could, then sat down again, partly to rest and partly to get the outline of trees and hills against the sky.

  Suddenly, he heard the faintest of sounds … something was out there. His horse? Murray? Brennan? Rep, maybe?

  He waited, listening for a repetition of the sound. There was none. He tried to place it in his mind … a click of hoof on stone? The bump of a rifle against a branch? After a moment he moved on, trying desperately to make no sound.

  He stopped again. He had heard nothing, yet he was sure something was out there, and not just his horse. Irish nerves are sensitive to unheard things in the night.

  Something was out there, waiting.

  He moved into the shadow of a juniper and dropped his right hand to his six-gun and slid the thong from the hammer. Could he get it out fast enough? Rep had said that the secret was not speed, but just to be sure that you got it out, levelled it steadily, and fired. To take that extra whisper of time … his uncle had said the same thing about a rifle. Had he loaded his rifle, after emptying it that day? He couldn’t remember. If only his blasted head didn’t throb so!

  He stood thinking. He had been able to see into the ravine from the place where he’d left his horse. Or he had before he dismounted, which was different. Yet he was sure that right at this moment his horse should be within sixty yards or so of where he stood. If the horse was still there.

  Suppose Murray was stalking him? Suppose Murray had found the stallion, left it where it was, and just pulled back to wait for him?

  Then the instant he untied the horse, Cris would take a slug through the spine.

  The thought had no appeal.

  He touched his six-shooter again. Murray and two others had been hunting him. He had nailed down one of them, certainly; if that man was alive he was in no condition to be poking around in the dark. But what of Murray and the other one? Had they ridden on with Parley?

  The night was still. Scarcely a leaf moved as Cris Mayo stood by the juniper and listened. Then finally he heard a faint stirring, not far off, a small rattle—the sound of a horse mouthing his bit. He was closer than he’d believed.

  Lifting a foot, he placed it gently down, making no noise. He moved forward a step, and then another.

  Something stirred faintly on the left; and the rattle of the bit had come from his right front. He listened, straining for the slightest sound. He took a sudden step to his right, tested the ground and put his foot down gently, then shifted his weight.

  Above him a nighthawk dipped and circled, then whisked away through the trees. All was white and still in the, moonlight, every object standing out in bold relief, yet the shapes were strange to him. The boulders cast shadows, as did the trees, shadows as dark as themselves, giving them weird, malformed aspects never seen by day.

  Somewhere down the slope a pebble rattled. Natural? Or disturbed by something … somebody?

  He could feel the trickles of perspiration despite the coolness of the night. Who was it who lurked nearby? He dared not simply shoot, for it might be Rep or Brennan, somebody searching for him but wary of Parley’s men.

  Cris Mayo took another careful step to his right. He was still shadowed by junipers, but this would be his last such move. He squatted down, peering ahead.

  The black horse should be less than sixty feet downslope and to the right. He was closer than he had at first believed … or had the rattle of the bit come from another horse?

  He eased the rifle into his two hands after checking his revolver again. He was growing irritated by the suspense, the waiting. He knew it was a dangerous feeling, for it might betray him into a move that would be the death of him; yet he had no idea whether there really was somebody out there. The imagination can play tricks, aided by natural movements of the earth and of animals. Sounds that occur all day long may be noticed only in the stillness of night. But pains and aches that wrench at a man from toes to crown, they make him impatient.

  He took up a small stone from near his foot and tossed it thirty feet back up the slope. He heard it hit, then rattle as it rolled down among rocks. Silence.

  There was a gap of a dozen feet between himself and the next juniper downslope and to the right. He moved, lunging suddenly from the ground and throwing himself toward the tree.

  He was seeking only another protective shadow, but what he smashed into was something quite different. He had started down in his crouching position and moved low and fast. His brogans grated on pebbles and then his shoulder hit hard against an obstacle that gave way before him. A hand clawed at his face, and a man rolled onto his back, into the open moonlight.

  The man he had seen with Murray!

  Knocked sprawling, Watkins lost his grip on his gun and it fell. He scrambled for it and Cris Mayo shot from where he crouched. No more than eight feet away and the rifle in his hands, he simply fired. And the rifle had been loaded, despite his worries. Watkins grunted, started to rise up. “Damn you!” he said clearly, and then he fell.

  Instantly a bullet struck within inches of Cris Mayo. He ran, crouched, fired, levered his rifle, fired again. Then he charged directly at the hidden marksman, working the lever as he moved. A gun blasted almost in his face and the stab of flame half-blinded him, but gripping the rifle in his two hands he took a wicked jab with the muzzle into the darkness where the flame had shown.

  The gun struck, a heavy rocking blow to a man’s upper body. Mayo heard the man grunt, fall, then scramble up and run. He shot, blindly, for the figure was indistinct and moving. He was sure it was Murray … and sure he had missed him.

  Turning, he ran back along the slope toward his horse. If it was there. Watkins still lay sprawled motionless, ungainly in the moonlight.

  Ducking into the small hollow where the black indeed stood, Cris tugged at the knot of the reins. It failed to give, evidently pulled tighter by the stallion’s movements. Slipping the rifle under an arm, he started to struggle with the knot.

  “There now!” The tone was quiet, amused. “Just stay right there, young man. I am really a very fine shot, and I have you silhoue
tted against the sky. If I missed you, I might shoot the horse, and neither of us want that, do we?”

  Cris held very still. “Why shoot me? I don’t even know you, mister. A couple of men just tried to steal my horse, and—”

  “It won’t do, Mr. Mayo. It just won’t do at all. You see, I know you. I know who you are and all about you. Most important, I have someone you are interested in.”

  “You have someone? I don’t know what you mean.”

  The laugh was almost pleasant. “Of course, you do not, Mr. Mayo. Of course not. You see, I have Barda McClean.”

  “You have her? Who are you?”

  Again the laugh. “I am Major Justin Parley, Mr. Mayo. I believe you know the name?”

  Chapter 16

  CRISPIN MAYO STOOD very still. He knew little of the man he faced other than that he had commanded the renegades, and that now he said he had Barda McClean. Cris spoke carelessly. “I have heard of you, Major Parley. That you have Barda McClean, I do not believe.”

  “You should believe it. It is because of you that I have her. When you did not return to Laramie, she assumed that you were lying injured out here, and she came looking for you.”

  That would be like her, of course. A brave, fearless, reckless girl, that one. Cris felt his stomach muscles tighten. Parley was here, and he would scarcely be alone … how many were with him? And if he had Barda, where was she?

  “You do not believe she would come for you? Oh, Mr. Mayo! You are mistaken. You misjudge the lady. She would come, she did come, in fact. I envy you, Mr. Mayo. It is not often one incurs the regard of such a lovely lady to that extent.”

  “If you have harmed her—!”

  “Come, come, Mr. Mayo! I am not a savage. Miss McClean is a lady, and I am a Southern gentleman.”

  “In Ireland we have heard of Southern gentlemen,” Cris spoke carefully, “and it is a fine thing to be one, sir. I envy you.”

  Parley was pleased, and it sounded in his voice. “I regret that we are enemies, Mr. Mayo. The Irish nobility is very ancient.”

  “It is that, sir. But I was never your enemy. I was attacked, and I defended myself. And then Miss McClean asked me to help rescue her father. What else could I have done?”

  Justin Parley, renegade or not, fancied himself a gentleman. He considered himself a model of chivalry, so the right way to handle this would be to accept him at his own measure and see that he lived up to it. Cris went on. “I would not have worried had I known you were a gentleman, sir. All them that travel these Western plains are not your sort.”

  “Put down your weapon,” Parley said. “I think we understand each other.”

  “We do, I am sure, but you’ll not be mindin’ if I keep the gun? It reassures me, sort of.”

  There was a moment of silence and then a faint footfall behind him, and holding the rifle elbow-high he turned sharply and struck viciously sidelong with the butt.

  A man had come in behind him and lifted a rifle with both hands to club him. The sudden turn and the smashing blow in the ribs brought the man down. There was a thud, a moaning grunt, and silence.

  “What was that?” Parley demanded.

  “I think somebody fell,” Cris said innocently, and eased a step forward. “Sounded like it was behind me.”

  Parley stood somewhere in shadow, as did Cris himself. “Get your horse,” Parley said. “Miss McClean is at my camp. I am sure she will be pleased to see you.”

  “I don’t believe, savin’ your presence, sir, that you have a camp,” Cris replied, “and I’m not much in the mood for travel.”

  How many were out there? Or was there anyone now but Justin Parley and himself? There had been the man behind him, of course, but—

  “It was my thought you’d be far from here,” Cris said, “for the vigilantes will be out again by daylight, and the Army, too. There’s two patrols out, you know … the two that guard the railroad, they’ve both turned this way and before mornin’ they’ll be closing in on you likewise.” He had no idea whether this was true, but it seemed logical.

  “Yes?” Parley’s tone was higher. Cris was sure that Parley was suddenly worried. “And why should you warn me of this?”

  “Look, Major, I don’t want to get myself caught in a shootin’ among the lot of you. I have no part in this fight. I’ve been in your country no more than two months and I know nothing of your fights or frolics. You say you have Barda McClean. What you hope to gain by capturing a girl who is just out of school I don’t know, but my feeling is that you’d better leave her with me and scatter out. Just scatter out and run. The odds are too high against you.”

  “You make it sound very simple.” There was irritation and impatience in the voice. Cris had an idea that Parley was waiting for that man to come up behind him. “We will keep Miss McClean, and you.”

  Cris took a step backward, very gently. The man he had hit was stirring. Evidently the blow with the butt of the rifle over the heart had hurt him, but not enough. Stooping, Cris stripped him of his pistol and knife, and picked up the fallen rifle. He took off the man’s cartridge belt and as the fellow began to rise, hit him a smashing blow on the head with the pistol barrel.

  “What was that?” Parley demanded.

  “A skull gettin’ cracked,” Cris replied mildly. “Somebody tried comin’ up behind me. I didn’t much care for it.”

  “Drop your gun,” Parley said harshly, “and come out with your hands up!”

  Cris shifted his weight, then crouched, holding the fallen man’s pistol. “Like the divil I will,” he said. “You start shootin’ when you’re ready, Major.” The time for all that gentlemen stuff was past.

  There was silence, absolute silence. Uneasily, he waited, then lowered one knee to the ground and very gently worked his way back. He was well in the shadow, and there was another tree close behind him. His toe found a sort of gully a few inches deep, a place where water had run off the top of the hill. That would deepen as it went down, he decided.

  The black horse stomped a foot, restless and wanting to be moving.

  Cris took a chance and rose suddenly, stepped to the horse and felt for the knot. He had started untying it before, and now it took but a couple of seconds. He heard no sound. Parley might have slipped away when his trap failed, but there wasn’t a guarantee of that.

  Thrusting the spare pistol behind his belt and holding both rifles, he stepped into the saddle and turned the black horse quickly down the gully he had found.

  Behind him there was a shot. It must have missed by several feet, and then he was riding swiftly away, leaning forward the better to see the trail. Soon he was in the bottom of a sandy wash and his horse made almost no sound.

  He was away, and Parley must have had only the one man with him, or else for some reason they were afraid to shoot. The one shot had been fired by Parley himself, Cris was sure, and probably in a fit of anger. But he was assuming things that he did not know.

  The wash led south and widened rapidly, spilling out on a plain of sagebrush with occasional juniper.

  Parley had obviously attempted to bluff him into surrender, and when that failed, withdrew … but for what purpose? Cris could not see how he would be of any value to the renegades. He was of no importance to anyone but himself. Yet the thought that they might have Barda rankled. He did not believe it, but it was possible.

  He followed the wash to the plain and rode across the open toward a clump of trees on a slope. Warily, he scouted the area, but his horse showed no interest so he rode into the trees. Picketing the black on a patch of grass, he leaned back against a cottonwood to rest, watching the way he had come.

  He was well armed. He now had two rifles, two pistols, and a knife, as well as the extra ammunition he had taken from the man he’d knocked out. If they came at him, he was ready.

  He rested his much-abused body for half an hour, then got up, put on his hat and went to his horse. He saddled up, fussing over the horse a little as the black seemed to like attention,
and then, aware now of hunger, checked the saddlebag. Unexpectedly he found that Brennan had had two sandwiches, thick with bread and beef, put into the saddlebag along with an apple. Seated where he could watch the moonlit country around, he ate one of the sandwiches and the apple. He was hungry enough to eat the other sandwich, but he had no idea how long he would be without food, so decided to keep it a bit longer.

  He rode south into rougher country. Topping out on a rise, he studied the land about him. In all that vast expanse he could see nothing.

  The logical thing was to return to Fort Sanders or Laramie and get the latest news, find out what had happened.

  Off to the west the country was rougher still, and rising into higher mountains. He circled around, hoping to pick up the trail of Barda McClean, but there was a confusion of tracks, some of them yesterday’s, some old. There was nothing to do but head for Fort Sanders.

  Reluctantly, he took his bearings by the stars and turned the black, which was in good shape and seemed to thrive on Wyoming grass. Parley’s comments rankled. Did he really have Barda McClean? Or had he invented that? And why, of all people, would they care about him? He was nobody, save to himself.

  He buttoned his coat. There was a chill in the air that let him know he had best be planning for cold weather, and him with no place to stay. Riding around on fine horses playing at soldier or scout was well enough if it helped honest people, but it brought him no money.

  Of course, he had twelve hundred dollars. A goodly sum, well worth the pounding he’d taken, and sufficient to start in business if he was so minded. He might buy a few horses and—

  Something tugged at his hat and then he heard the bark of a rifle, and he wheeled his horse over and charged into the nearest gully. He had no idea where the shot had come from, only that somebody had fired, and he headed for the lowest ground he could find.

  He raced his horse into the gully, galloped a fast hundred yards, saw a canyon branching off and turned sharply into it, going back toward where he’d just come from. The floor of the ravine was sandy; he slowed his horse to a walk, holding one of the rifles, the newly captured one, in his hands. The other was in the saddle scabbard.