The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1

by Louis L'Amour

  When he was seated she poured a cup, and watched his expression anxiously. He tried it, tasted it again, then nodded. “A mite more coffee, ma’am, and you got it.”

  He looked around the neat little cabin, then out over the yard. The corrals were new and well built, the cabin was solidly constructed and the stable was no makeshift.

  “Seen anything of Big Lew Miller?”

  “No.” She looked at him suddenly. “Look, did you ever hear of a man named Bud Shaw? He’s a killer. A man with a gun for hire.”

  The old man touched his mustache thoughtfully. “Bud Shaw? The name seems sort of familiar.” He looked up at her, his eyes veiled and cold. “A killer, you say? Where did you hear that?”

  “Steve told me today. Oh, he said that this man Bud Shaw was different than some, that he’d give a man a chance before he killed him. But I don’t think that matters.

  “Look”—she leaned toward him—“you know outlaws. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be living at Rustler’s Springs. At least, Steve says that’s a hangout for them. If you know how I can meet Bud Shaw and talk to him, I wish you’d fix it up.”

  He drank coffee and then rolled a smoke. She watched the slim brown fingers, almost like a woman’s. Not one shred of tobacco spilled on the floor. When he had touched his tongue to the cigarette he looked around at her. “What you want to see him for?”

  She had a notion of talking to him. No man could be so cruel as to—well, it wasn’t right to shoot people, and Steve was a good man, only trying to build a home. That’s all. And he wanted children, and … she was explaining all this when he interrupted.

  “I take it you’ve changed your mind about runnin’ off ?”

  She flushed. “I—I must have been mad. He does need me. You believe that, don’t you? I mean—you think he really does?”

  At the last her voice was pleading.

  “A man needs a woman. No man is right without one, believe me. And with Steve it’s got to be the right woman. He’s that kind of man.”

  “But you said you didn’t know him?”

  “I don’t. Not rightly, I don’t. But folks hear things.” His voice was suddenly sour. “Lady, Steve Bonnet won’t kill easy. Not for Bud Shaw or nobody. Why do you reckon the Millers ain’t killed him? There’s four Millers. Why ain’t they done it?”

  He struck a match and lighted his smoke. “The Millers tried it, but there was five of them, then. Your husband killed one Miller and put another in the hospital.”

  Steve had killed a man. Somehow the fact was not so shocking as it might have been a day or two before. Probably that was why he hesitated to condemn even a hired killer.

  The old man got to his feet. “I’m driftin’, ma’am. See you sometime.”

  “Wait.” She went to the cupboard and hurriedly took down a pan of biscuits. “I just baked these, and some bread. Take them along.” She took a brown loaf from the cupboard and put it with the biscuits into a sack. “That is one thing I can do!” Her chin lifted a little. “I can bake bread.”

  The old man looked at her thoughtfully. “Thanks, ma’am. I appreciate this. First time anybody has given me anything for a long time.”

  “And don’t forget, you promised to come over and teach me how to make soap.”

  He actually smiled. “Sure enough, I did at that.”

  When he was gone she looked down the trail again. And returning to her chair, resumed her work.

  It was almost dusk when she saw the rider. For an instant she was sure it was Steve, and then he vanished into the trees. Quickly, she got up, closed the window shutters and got the shotgun. Then she put out the light and waited. It was not yet dark outside and she could see clearly.

  A long time later a soft rustle outside the window caused her shotgun to lift. A man rounded into the door and her finger was tightening on her trigger when she recognized Steve.

  Frightened, she got to her feet. “Oh, Steve! I might have shot you!”

  He glanced at her, his eyes wary. “You’re alone?”

  “Why—of course! Who would be here?”

  He walked to the bedroom and drew back the blanket that curtained the door. When he returned to the kitchen he paused, looking around. “Somebody scouted the place today. A man ridin’ a small horse.”

  She started to explain, then caught herself. If she told about the friendly old man then she must explain how they had met, and that she had planned to leave Steve. That she could not bring herself to do. Not now.

  He was watching her, an odd look in his eyes. Her hesitation had aroused his doubts.

  “It must have been a mistake,” she said guiltily. “I saw no one.”

  Her voice trailed off, but she knew she was a poor liar. Steve dropped into a chair and looked at her, frowning a little. To avoid his eyes she hastily began to put food on the table, and then, desperately, tried to open a conversation. Somehow her words trailed off into nothing.

  Each time their eyes met, Steve deliberately looked away.

  “Steve—what’s wrong?”

  He did not meet her eyes. He got up. “Nothin’. Just tired, I guess.”

  At daylight she was up and she got breakfast, her heart tight and cold within her. Steve said nothing, only once when he finished combing his hair and turned away from the glass, their eyes met. His face looked drawn and lonely. Laurie longed to run to him and …

  “You be careful,” he said, sitting down at the table. “Don’t let anybody in here. The Millers—they might try anything.”

  “Have you seen that other man?”

  “Shaw?” He shook his head, watching her fill his cup. “No. He’s the one worries me. That was no Miller horse that I tracked. That Shaw—he might try anything. All a man knows is that he’ll be where he’s least expected.”

  He waited inside the door for a long time before he went to the stable. He stood there, just studying the place, the trees, the hills. Reluctantly, he stepped out and then moved to the stable, flattened against the wall, then went in.

  She waited breathless for him to emerge. When he came out he took a quick look toward the house.

  He did not trust her. Laurie knew that now. He believed … but what could he believe?

  Suddenly, she started out. “Steve!” she ran toward him. “Steve! Don’t go!”

  He hesitated. “Work to be done. If I hide today, what about tomorrow, and the next day? I can’t hide all the time. I got to go on.”

  The old man came up to the house just before sundown and he was walking, carrying his inevitable rifle. He came up to the door and waited until she saw him.

  “Ma’am, I got to talk to you.”

  “You’d better go away.” Laurie’s small face was stiff with worry. “Steve saw your tracks. He—doesn’t trust me.”

  “You told him about me? You described me?” he asked quickly.

  “No. I told him I had seen no one. He didn’t believe me.”

  “I got to come inside, ma’am. Right away. I got to get out of sight.”

  She looked at him, saw the queer tightness in the parchmentlike brown skin. She hesitated only a moment, then stepped aside. “You’ll help us?”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Against Bud Shaw, too?”

  He looked at her. “Yes,” he said wryly, “even against him.”

  Then they heard the horse. A lone horse, and he was coming fast. From somewhere a shot sounded, then a volley. Then another shot.

  The old man swore viciously. He started forward, then shrank back.

  It was the gelding, and Steve Bonnet was clinging to the saddle horn. He half-fell from the saddle and, with a start of horror, Laurie saw the blood on his shirt and face, blood on his sleeve. He lunged, tripped on the step, and then before she could move to help him, he scrambled into the door. “Laurie!” his voice was hoarse. “The shotgun! They’re comin’!”

  He grasped the door edge and half-turned, and then he saw the man standing by the table.

  Laurie saw a
sudden stillness come over his face, a strange coolness. His one good hand, his left, halted above the gun in his waistband. The butt was turned for a right hand draw … it was an awkward chance.

  “Hello, Bud,” he said quietly.

  Laurie cried out, a stabbing little cry.

  “Hello, Steve.”

  The man waited, looking at Steve.

  “Go ahead,” Steve said bitterly. “You’ve given me my chance. I’m ready.”

  Bud Shaw looked at him, and nodded gravely. “Sure you are, Steve. I knew that. You’d always be ready.” He waited and Laurie could hear the clock tick, and somewhere outside the slow movement of approaching horses with cautious riders.

  “You’re a lucky man, Steve,” Bud said quietly, “you’ve got a game wife, a fine wife.”

  Slowly then, with conscious and obvious deliberation he turned and went out the door. He stopped there with his feet wide.

  They heard the horses coming on, then heard them stop. Steve stared at Laurie, listening. Then he dropped his hand for the shotgun and lifted it. She could see the blood on his sleeve, reddening his right hand.

  “All right, Lew”—it was Bud Shaw speaking—“you can stop right there.”

  “Never knowed you for a turncoat, Bud,” Big Lew spoke carefully.

  “I told you I was through,” Bud Shaw spoke reasonably, “I told you plain.”

  “You said nothin’ about switchin’ sides.”

  “Well, then. Hear it now. I’ve switched. If you want to know why, I’ll tell you. Two things made me switch. Four yellow bellies that had to hire their killin’, and then dry-gulched a lone man. That was only part of it.”

  They could see him standing there, a slight old man, his shoulders thin under the worn shirt. He had left the rifle inside and stood there with the two sixguns on his belt, facing them.

  “The other thing was a little lady who wanted nothin’ so much as to make good coffee for her man. I figure the man that little lady could love was too much of a man to be shot down for a pack of coyotes.”

  Big Lew’s voice was harsh. “We won’t take that talk, Bud! Not even from you!”

  “You’ll take it”—the old man’s voice was dry with patience and disgust—“you’ll take it, and I more than half wish you wouldn’t.”

  He stood there like that in the gathering dusk and watched them ride away. When Laurie moved close to Steve and put her arm around him, she did not know, but she was there when the old man turned back to the door.

  “Light the light, Laurie,” he said gently, “and let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

  Beyond the Chaparral

  Jim Rossiter looked up as the boy came into the room. He smiled, a half-nostalgic smile, for this boy reminded him of himself … fifteen, no … twenty years ago.

  “What is it, Mike?”

  The boy’s eyes were worried. He hesitated, not wanting to tell what he had to tell, yet knowing with his boyish wisdom that it was better for Rossiter to hear it from him, now.

  “Lonnie Parker’s back from prison.”

  Jim Rossiter did not move for a long, long minute. “I see,” he said. “Thanks, Mike.”

  When the boy had gone he got to his feet and walked to the window, watching Mike cross the street. It was not easy to grow up in a western town when one wanted the things Mike Hamlin wanted.

  Mike Hamlin did not want to punch cows, to drive a freight wagon or a stage. He did not want to own a ranch or even be the town marshal. Mike was a dreamer, a thinker, a reader. He might be a young Shelley, a potential Calhoun. He was a boy born to thought, and that in a community where all the premiums were paid to action.

  Jim Rossiter knew how it was with Mike, for Jim had been through it, too. He had fought this same battle, and had, after a fashion, won.

  He had punched cows, all right. And for a while he had driven a freight wagon. For a time he had been marshal of a trail town, but always with a book in his pocket. First it had been Plutarch—how many times had he read it? Then Plato, Thucydides, Shakespeare, and Shelley. The books had been given to him by a drunken remittance man, and he had passed them along to Mike. A drunken Englishman and Jim Rossiter, bearers of the torch. He smiled wryly at the thought.

  But he had won.… He had gone east, had become a lawyer, had practiced there. However, memories of the land he left behind were always with him, the wide vistas, the battlements of the mesas, the vast towers of lonely cloud, the fringing pines … and the desert that gave so richly of its colors and its spaces.

  So he had come back.

  A scholar and a thinker in a land of action. A dreamer in a place of violence. He had returned because he loved the land. He stayed because he loved Magda Lane. That love, he had found, was one of the few things that gave his life any meaning.

  And now Lonnie Parker was back.

  Lonnie, who had given so much to Magda when she needed it, so much of gaiety and laughter. Lonnie Parker, who rode like a devil and fought like a madman. Lonnie, who could dance and laugh and be gay, and who was weak—that was Magda’s word.

  Rossiter, who was wise in the ways of women, knew that weakness had its appeal. There was a penalty for seeming strong, for those whose pride made it necessary to carry on as best they could although often lonely or unhappy. No one realized—few would take the time to look closely enough. The weak needed help … the strong? They needed nothing.

  Sometimes it seemed the price of strength was loneliness and unhappiness … and the rewards for weakness were love, tenderness, and compassion.

  Now Jim Rossiter stared down the dusty street, saw the bleak faces of the old buildings, lined with the wind etchings of years, saw the far plains and hills beyond, and knew the depths of all that loneliness.

  Now that Lonnie was back it would spell the end of everything for him. Yet in a sense it would be a relief. Now the threat was over, the suspense would be gone.

  He had never known Lonnie Parker. But he had heard of him. “Lonnie?” they would say, smiling a little. “There’s no harm in him. Careless, maybe, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  Rossiter looked around the bare country law office. Three years, and he had come to love it, this quiet place, often too quiet, where he practiced law. He walked back to his desk and sat down. He was supposed to call tonight … should he?

  Lonnie was back, and Magda had once told him herself, “I’m not sure, Jim. Perhaps I love him. I … I don’t know. I was so alone then, and he understood and he needed me. Maybe that was all it was, but I just don’t know.”

  Jim Rossiter was a tall, quiet man with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He liked people, and he made friends. Returning to the West he had come to this town where he was not known, and had brought a new kind of law with him.

  In the past, the law had been an instrument of the big cattleman. The small men could not afford to hire the sort of lawyers who could fight their cases against the big money. Jim Rossiter had taken their cases, and they had paid him, sometimes with cash, sometimes with cattle, sometimes with promises. Occasionally, he lost. More often, he won.

  Soon he had cattle of his own, and he ran them on Tom Frisby’s place, Frisby being one of the men for whom he had won a case.

  Rossiter made enemies, but he also made friends. He rode miles to talk to newcomers; he even took cases out of the county. He was a good listener and his replies were always honest. There had been a mention of him for the legislature when the territory became a state.

  He had seen Magda Lane the morning he arrived, and the sight of her had stopped him in the middle of the street.

  She had been crossing toward him, a quiet, lovely girl with dark hair and gray-green eyes. She had looked up and seen him there, a tall, young man in a gray suit and black hat. Their eyes met, and Jim Rossiter looked quickly away, then walked on, his mouth dry, his heart pounding.

  Even in that small town it was three weeks before they met. Rossiter saw her box handed to a younger girl to smuggle in to the box supp
er, and had detected the colors of the wrappings. He spent his last four dollars bidding on it, but he won.

  They had talked then, and somehow he had found himself telling her of his boyhood, his ambitions, and why he had returned to the West.

  Almost a month passed before she told him of Lonnie. It came about easily, a passing mention. Yet he had heard the story before. According to some, Lonnie had held up a stage in a moment of boyish excitement.

  “But he didn’t mean anything by it,” she told him. “He isn’t a bad boy.”

  Later, he was shocked when he discovered that Lonnie had been twenty-seven when he was sent to prison.

  But others seemed to agree. Wild, yes … but not bad. Not Lonnie. Had a few drinks, maybe, they said. He’d spent most of the money in a poker game.

  Only Frisby added a dissenting note. “Maybe he ain’t bad,” he said testily, “but I had money on that stage. Cost me a season’s work so’s he could set in that game with George Sprague.”

  The stolen money, Rossiter learned, had been taken in charge by the stage driver to buy dress goods, household items, and other odds and ends for a dozen of the squatters around Gentry. A boyish prank, some said, but it had cost the losers the few little things they needed most, the things they had saved many nickels and dimes to buy.

  Yet, on the evenings when he visited Magda, he thought not at all of Lonnie. He was far away and Magda was here right now. They walked together, rode together. She was a widow—her husband had been killed by Indians after a marriage of only weeks. At a trying time in her life, Lonnie had come along and he had been helpful, considerate.

  Now Lonnie was back, and he, Jim Rossiter, was to visit Magda that evening.

  It was not quite dark when he opened the gate in the white picket fence and started up the walk to the porch. He heard a low murmur of voices, then laughter. He felt his cheeks flush, and for an instant debated turning about. Yet he went on, and his foot was lifted for the first step up the porch when he saw them.