Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “My name’s Ollie Morse,” he said. “Who are you fellows?”

  “I’m Sartain.” Kim was abrupt. “This is Bud Fox. We’re on the drift.”

  No one spoke, just standing there and looking, and none of the men made the slightest move toward the body. Kim’s eyes hardened as he looked them over, and then he said, “In case you’re interested, the mail pouches seem all right. There was a card in his pocket said to notify Hazel Morse.” Kim’s eyes went to the white-faced girl who stood by the wall, biting her lip.

  To his surprise it was not she but the blond who stepped forward. “I’m Hazel Morse,” she said, and then turning sharply her eyes went to the two younger men. “Verne,” she spoke sharply, “you an’ Matty get him off that horse. Take him to the barn until you get a grave dug.”

  Kim Sartain felt a little flicker of feeling run through him and he glanced at Bud, who shrugged. Both men gathered up their bridle reins. “Better notify the sheriff an’ the express company,” Kim commented idly. “They’ll probably want to know.” The faint edge of sarcasm in his voice aroused the big man.

  “You wouldn’t be gettin’ smart now, would you?” His voice was low and ugly. His gun butt was worn from much handling, and he looked as tough as he was untidy.

  “Smart?” Kim Sartain shrugged. “That ain’t my way, to be smart. I was just thinkin’,” he added dryly, “that this young fellow sure picked a bad place to die. Nobody seems very wrought-up about it, not even the girl he wanted notified in case of death. What were you to him?” he addressed the last question to Hazel Morse suddenly.

  Her face flushed angrily. “He was a friend!” she flared. “He came courtin’ a few times, that was all!”

  Sartain turned away and led his horse across the street to the saloon, followed by Bud Fox. Behind him there was a low murmur of voices. The older man sitting on the porch looked at them with veiled eyes. He was grizzled and dirty in a faded cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up exposing the red flannels he wore. His body was lean and the gun he had tucked in his waist-band looked used.

  He got up as they went through the door into the saloon, and followed them in, moving around behind the bar. “Rye?” he questioned.

  Kim nodded and watched him set out the bottle and glasses. When Kim poured a drink for Bud and himself, he replaced the bottle on the bar, and the old man stood there, looking at them. Kim tossed a silver dollar on the bar and the man made change from his pants pocket. “Any place around here a man can get a meal?” Kim asked.

  “Yeah.” The older man waited while Kim could have counted to fifty. “Over the road there, at the station. They serve grub. My old lady’s a good cook.”

  “Your name Morse, too?”

  “Uh huh.” He scratched his stomach. “I’m Het Morse. Ollie, he runs the stage station. He’s my boy. Hazel, that there blond gal you talked to, she’s my gal. Verne Stecher, the young feller with the red shirt, he’s my neffy, my own brother’s boy. Matty Brown, he just loafs here when he ain’t workin’.”

  Kim felt a queer little start of apprehension. He had heard of Matty Brown. The sullen youngster had killed six or seven men, one of them at Pioche only a few months back. He was known as a bad one to tangle with. Suddenly, Kim had a feeling of being hemmed in, of being surrounded by the Morse clan and their kind.

  “Too bad about that express rider,” Bud commented.

  “Maybe,” Kim suggested to Bud, “we might get us jobs ridin’ the mail. With this gent dead, they might need a good man or two.”

  “Could be,” Bud agreed. “It’s worth askin’ about. Who,” he looked up at Het, “would we talk to? Your son?”

  “No. Ollie, he’s only the station man. You’d have to ride on over the Rubies to the Fort, or maybe down to Carson.” He looked at them, his interest finally aroused. “You from around here?”

  “From over the mountains,” Kim said. “We been ridin’ for the Tumblin’ K.” They had agreed not to fake a story. Their own was good enough, for neither of them had ever been connected with the law; both had always been cowhands.

  “Tumblin’ K?” Het nodded. “Heard of it. Gunfightin’ outfit. Hear tell that McQueen feller is hell on wheels with his guns. An’ that other’n, too, that youngster they call Sarten.”

  “Sartain,” Kim said. “Emphasis on the ‘tain’ part.”

  “You know him?” Het studied Kim. “Or maybe you are him?”

  “That’s right.” Kim did not pause to let Morse think that over, but added, “This is the slack season. No need for so many hands, an’ Bud here, him an’ me wanted to see some country.”

  “That’s likely.” Het indicated the darkening building across the road. “Closin’ up now, until after grub. They’ll fix you a bite over there. I’ll let you a room upstairs, the two of you for a dollar.”

  Supper was a slow, silent meal. The food was good and there was lots of it, but it was heavy and the biscuits were soggy. It was far different from the cooking back on the K, as both punchers remembered regretfully. Nobody talked, for eating here seemed to be a serious business.

  The dark-haired girl came and went in silence, and once Kim caught her looking at him with wide, frightened eyes. He smiled a little, and a brief, trembling smile flickered on the girl’s face, then was gone. Once a big woman with a face that might have been carved from red granite appeared in the door holding a large spoon. She stared at him and then went back into the kitchen. If this was Het’s wife there was little of motherly love around Sand Springs.

  Het chuckled suddenly, then he looked up. “You fellers got yourself a high-toned guest tonight,” he said, grinning triumphantly and with some malice, too. “That dark-haired one is Kim Sartain, that gunfightin’ segundo from the Tumblin’ K!”

  All eyes lifted, but those of Matty Brown seemed suddenly to glow with deep fire. He stared at Kim, nodding. “Heerd about yuh,” he said.

  “Folks talk a mighty lot,” Sartain said casually. “They stretch stories pretty far.”

  “That’s what I reckoned,” Matty slapped butter on a slab of bread, his tone contemptuous.

  Kim Sartain felt a little burst of anger within him and he hardened suddenly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bud Fox give Matty a cold, careful look. Bud was no gunslinger, but he was a fighting man and he knew trouble when he saw it. As far as that went, they sat right in the middle of plenty of trouble. Kim had guessed that right away, but he knew it with a queer excitement when he saw Ollie reach over and break a straw from the broom and start picking his teeth with it.

  Outside on the porch, Fox drew closer to Sartain. “Better sleep with your gun on,” he said dryly. “I don’t like this setup.”

  “Me either. Wonder what that dark-haired girl is doin’ in this den of wolves? She don’t fit in, not one bit.”

  “We’ll see,” Kim said. “I think we’ll stick around for awhile. When the stage goes on, we’ll send a letter to Carson about jobs, but that’ll be just an excuse to stay on here.”

  CHAPTER 3

  SARTAIN KICKED HIS feet from under the blankets in the chill of dawn. He rubbed his, eyes and growled under his breath, then pulled on his wool socks and padded across the room to throw cold water on his face. When he had straightened, he looked at Bud. The lean and freckled cowhand was sleeping with his mouth open, snoring gently.

  Kim grinned suddenly and looked at the basin of cold water, then remembered they would sleep here tonight and thought the better of his impulse. Crossing to the bed he sat down hard and searched under it for a boot. He pulled it on, stamping his foot into place. Bud Fox opened one wary eye. “I know, you lousy souwegian, you want me to wake up. Well, I ain’t a gonna do it!” Closing his eyes he snored hard.

  Sartain grinned and pulled on the other boot, then crossed to the water pitcher. Lifting it, he sloshed the water about noisily, then looked at the bed. Bud Fox had both eyes wide with alarm. “You do it,” he threatened, “an’ so help me, I’ll kill you!”

  Kim chuckled. “Get u
p! We got work to do!”

  “Why get up? What we got to do that’s so pressin’?” As he talked, Fox sat up. “When I think of eating breakfast with that outfit I get cold chills. I never did see such a low-down passel o’ folks in all my days.” He stretched. “ ’Ceptin’ for that dark-haired Jeanie.”

  Kim said nothing, but he was in complete agreement. As he belted on his guns he looked out the window, studying the white track of the trail. Nowhere had he seen such a misbegotten bunch of buildings or people.

  “You watch that Matty Brown,” Fox warned, heading for the basin. “He’s pizen mean. Sticks out all over him.”

  “They’re all of a kind, this bunch,” Kim agreed. “I reckon we won’t have to travel much further to find what we want. Proving it may be a full-sized job. That old man downstairs fair gives me the chills. To my notion he’s the worst of the lot.”

  When they left the room Kim Sartain paused and glanced down the bare and empty hall. Five more doors opened off the hall, but now all were closed. There was a door at the end, too, but that must lead to the stairs he had seen from below.

  Turning, they walked down the hall, their boots sounding loud in the passage. The stairs took them to the barroom where all was dark and still. The dusty bottles behind the bar, the few scattered tables with their cards and dirty glasses that stood desolate and still, all were lost in the half gloom of early day.

  Outside a low wind was blowing and they hustled across to the warmth of the boardinghouse. Here a light was burning but there was no one in sight, although the table was set and they could hear sounds from the kitchen, a rattle of dishes, and then someone shaking down a stove.

  Kim hung his hat on a peg and glanced into the cracked mirror on the wall. His narrow, dark face looked cold this morning. As cold as he felt. He hitched his guns to an easier place, resting his palms on the polished butts of the big .44 Russians for an instant. There were places where the checking on the walnut butt had worn almost smooth from handling.

  There were hurried footsteps and then the dark-haired girl came through the door with a coffee pot. She smiled quickly, glancing from Kim to Bud and back again. “I knew it must be you. Nobody else gets around so early.”

  “You seem to,” Kim said, smiling. “Are you the cook?”

  “Sometimes. I usually get breakfast. Are…are you leaving today?”

  “No.” Kim watched her movements. She was a slim, lovely girl with a trim figure and a soft, charming face. “We’re staying around.”

  For an instant she was still, listening. Then low-voiced, she said, “I wouldn’t. I would ride on, quickly. Today.”

  Both of the cowhands watched her now. “Why?” Kim asked. “Tell us.”

  “I can’t. But…but it…it’s dangerous here. They don’t like strangers stopping here. Especially now.”

  “What are you doing here? You don’t seem to fit in.”

  She hesitated again, listening. “I have to stay. My father died owing them money. I have to work it out, and then I can go. If I tried to leave now, they would bring me back. Besides, it wouldn’t be honest.”

  Kim Sartain looked surprised. “You think we should leave? I think you should leave. At once—by the next stage.”

  “I cannot. I…,” she hesitated, listening again.

  Kim looked up at her. “What about Johnny Farrow? Was he in love with Hazel, and she with him?”

  “He may have been, but Hazel? She loves no one but herself, unless it is Matty. I doubt even that. She would do anything for money.”

  She went out to the kitchen and they heard the sound of frying eggs. Kim glanced around, reached for the coffee pot, and then filled his cup. As he did so, he heard footsteps crossing the road, and then the door opened and Matty Brown came in, followed by Verne Stecher. They dropped onto the bench across the table.

  Matty looked at Kim. “Up early, ain’t you? Figure on pullin’ out?”

  “We’re going to stick around. We’re writin’ to Carson, maybe we, can get jobs ridin’ with the mail or express. Sounds like it might be interesting.”

  “You seen Farrow. That look interesting?”

  Before Kim could reply, Ollie Morse came in with his father. They looked sharply at Kim and Bud and then sat down at the table. Finishing their meal, the two cowhands arose and went outside, drifting toward the stable.

  “Johnny Farrow,” Kim said suddenly, “started his ride ten miles west of here. He swapped horses here, and then again ten miles east, and as the next stretch was all up and down hill, rough mountain country, he finished his ride in just five miles on the third horse.

  “All this route was mapped out and timed. They know those messages had to be read while in his possession, yet they couldn’t have been. Nobody had time to open those pouches, open a message and then seal both of them again in the time allowed. It just couldn’t be done. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless Johnny found a way to cut his time. All the way out here I’ve been studying this thing. He had to find some way to cut his time. Now he swapped horses here, an’ we know that everybody here is in the one family, so to speak. We know that Johnny was sweet on Hazel. No man likes to just wave at a girl; he likes to set over, coffee with her, talk a mite.

  “Suppose he found a way or somebody showed him a way he could cut his time? Suppose while he sat talkin’ to Hazel, these other hombres found a way to open the mail pouch?”

  Bud nodded and lit his cigarette. “Yeah,” he agreed, “it could have been done that way. Whatever was done, Johnny must have got wise. Then they killed him.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THEY SADDLED UP and, mounting their horses, started down the trail to the west. Glancing back, Kim saw Ollie Morse standing on the porch shading his eyes after them. All morning there had been an idea in the back of Kim’s mind and now it came to the fore. He swung left into an arroyo and led the way swiftly in a circling movement that would bring them back to the trail east of Sand Springs.

  “Where you headed for now?” Bud demanded. “You’re headed right into the worst mess of mountains around here.”

  “Yeah,” Kim slowed his pace, “but you know something? I’ve been drawing maps in my mind. It looks to me like that trail from Sand Springs to the next station at Burnt Rock swings somewhat wide to get around those mountains you speak of. Suppose there was a way through? Would that save time or wouldn’t it?”

  “Sure, if it would save distance. If there was an easy way through, why, a man might cut several miles off, and miles mean minutes.”

  “In other words, if a man knew a shortcut through those mountains, and he wanted to stay an’ talk to his girl a while, he could do it. I’ve seen girls I’d take a chance like that to talk to. That Jeanie, for instance. Now she’s reg’lar.”

  They rode on in silence for several minutes. Before them the wall of the mountains lifted abruptly. It was not a wall, but a slope far too steep for a horse to climb and one that would have been a struggle for a mountain goat. While there were notches in the wall, none of them gave promise of an opening. As far as they could see to the north the mountains were unchanged, a series of peaks, and the wall, staggered somewhat, still.

  Twice they investigated openings, but each time they ended in steep slides down which water had cascaded in wet periods. At noon they stopped, built a dry brush fire, and made coffee. But Fox ate in silence until Kim filled his cup for the third time. “Don’t look good, Kim. We ain’t found a thing.”

  “There’s got to be a hole!” Kim persisted irritably. “There’s no other way he could have made it.”

  He was wishing right now that Ward McQueen was here. The foreman of the Tumbling K had a head for problems. As for himself, well, he was some shakes in a scrap but he’d never been much for figuring angles.

  Tired and dusty from travel, they returned to Sand Springs. The street between the buildings was deserted as they approached, not even a sight of Het, who apparently almost lived on the saloon stoo
p. They stabled their horses and rubbed them down and then started for the boardinghouse. Suddenly Kim stopped. “Bud, watch yourself! I don’t like the look of this!”

  Bud Fox moved right of the wide barn door, every sense alert. “What’s the matter, Kim?” he whispered. “See something?”

  “That’s the trouble,” Kim said. “I don’t see anything or hear anything. It’s too quiet!”

  Carefully, he backed into the shadows and eased over in the darkness along the wall. It was late evening, not yet dusk, but dark when away from the wide barn door. Looking out, Kim’s eye caught what was the merest suggestion of movement from a window over the saloon. Although the evening was cool, that window was open. A rifleman there could cover the barn door unseen.

  Turning swiftly, Kim ran on soundless feet to the rear of the barn. Opening the door to the corral, he slid outside and scrambled over the fence, then ducked into the desert and circled until he could get across the road. All this took him no more than two minutes, but once across the road, he eased around to the back of the saloon and opened the rear door after mounting the stairs. He crept down the hall, but just as he reached for the doorknob a board creaked under his feet. He grabbed the knob and thrust the door open, hearing a faint sound from within the room as he did so.

  Kim stepped into the room, gun in hand, then stopped. It was empty. On the right there was another door and he stepped swiftly to it and turned the knob. The door was locked.

  There was a bed here as in his own room; there was also a chair and table, a bowl and pitcher. He stepped to the window and glanced out. There was no sound or movement anywhere. He was turning away when he heard something crunch slightly under his boot. He dropped to one knee and felt around on the floor, then picked up several twigs, broken about an inch long in each case.

  Closing the door behind him, he walked along the hall and then went down the stairs. There was nobody in sight. The saloon was empty. Stepping out into the street, Sartain holstered his gun and crossed the street to the stable. “All right, Bud,” he said.