Desert
Death-Song
Desert
Death-Song
A Collection of Western Stories
By
Louis L’Amour
Copyright © 2013 by Skyhorse Publishing
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-457-7
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Keep Travelin’, Rider
His Brother’s Debt
Dutchman’s Flat
Trap of Gold
Desert Death-Song
Riding for the Brand
Big Medicine
Man Riding West
McQueen of the Tumbling K
The Turkeyfeather Riders
KEEP TRAVELIN’, RIDER
CHAPTER ONE: Guns of Change
When Tack Gentry sighted the weather beaten buildings of the G Bar, he touched spurs to the buckskin and the horse broke into a fast canter that carried the cowhand down the trail and around into the ranch yard. He swung down.
“Hey!” he yelled happily, grinning. “Is that all the welcome I get?”
The door pushed open and a man stepped out on the worn porch. The man had a stubble of a beard and a drooping mustache. His blue eyes were small and narrow.
“Who are yuh?” he demanded. “And what do yuh want?”
“I’m Tack Gentry!” Tack said. “Where’s Uncle John?”
“I don’t know yuh,” the man said, “and I never heard of no Uncle John. I reckon yuh got onto the wrong spread, youngster.”
“Wrong spread?” Tack laughed. “Quit your funnin’! I helped build that house there, and built the corrals by my lonesome, while Uncle John was sick. Where is everybody?”
The man looked at him carefully, then lifted his eyes to a point beyond Tack. A voice spoke from behind the cowhand. “Reckon yuh been gone awhile, ain’t yuh?”
Gentry turned. The man behind him was short, stocky and blond. He had a wide, flat face, a small broken nose and cruel eyes.
“Gone? I reckon yes! I’ve been gone most of a year! Went north with a trail herd to Ellsworth, then took me a job as a segundo on a herd movin’ to Wyoming.”
Tack stared around, his eyes alert and curious. There was something wrong here, something very wrong. The neatness that had been typical of Uncle John Gentry was gone. The place looked run down, the porch was untidy, the door hung loose on its hinges, even the horses in the corral were different.
“Where’s Uncle John?” Tack demanded again. “Quit stallin’!” The blond man smiled, his lips parting over broken teeth and a hard, cynical light coming into his eyes. “If yuh mean John Gentry, who used to live on this place, he’s gone. He drawed on the wrong man and got himself killed.”
“What?” Tack’s stomach felt like he had been kicked. He stood there, staring. “He drew on somebody? Uncle John?”
Tack shook his head. “That’s impossible! John Gentry was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence against anybody or anything in his life! He never even wore a gun, never owned one!”
“I only know what they tell me,” the blond man said, “but we got work to do, and I reckon yuh better slope out of here. And,” he added grimly, “if yuh’re smart yuh’ll keep right on goin’, clean out of this country!”
“What do yuh mean?” Tack’s thoughts were in a turmoil trying to accustom himself to this change, wondering what could have happened, what was behind it.
“I mean yuh’ll find things considerably changed around here. If yuh decide not to leave,” he added, “yuh might ride into Sunbonnet and look up Van Hardin or Dick Olney and tell him I said to give yuh all yuh had comin’, tell ’em Soderman sent yuh.”
“Who’s Van Hardin?” Tack asked. The name was unfamiliar.
“Yuh been away all right!” Soderman acknowledged. “Or yuh’d know who Van Hardin is. He runs this country. He’s the ramrod, Hardin is. Olney’s sheriff.”
Tack Gentry rode away from his home ranch with his thoughts in confusion. Uncle John! Killed in a gunfight! Why, that was out of reason! The old man wouldn’t fight. He never had, and never would. And this Dick Olney was sheriff! What had become of Pete Liscomb? No election was due for another year, and Pete had been a good sheriff.
There was only one way to solve the problem and get the whole story, and that was to circle around and ride by the London ranch. Bill could give him the whole story, and besides, he wanted to see Betty. It had been a long time.
The six miles to the headquarters of the London ranch went by swiftly, yet as Tack rode, he scanned the grassy levels along the Maravillas. There were cattle enough, more than he had ever seen on the old G Bar, and all of them wearing the G Bar brand.
He reined in sharply. What the? … Why, if Uncle John was dead, the ranch belonged to him! But if that was so, who was Soderman? And what were they doing on his ranch?
Three men were loafing on the wide veranda of the London ranch house when Tack rode up. All their faces were unfamiliar. He glanced warily from one to the other.
“Where’s Bill London?” he asked.
“London?” The man in the wide brown hat shrugged. “Reckon he’s to home, over in Sunbonnet Pass. He ain’t never over here.”
“This is his ranch, isn’t it?” Tack demanded.
All three men seemed to tense. “His ranch?” The man in the brown hat shook his head. “Reckon yuh’re a stranger around here. This ranch belongs to Van Hardin. London ain’t got a ranch. Nothin’ but a few acres back against the creek over to Sunbonnet Pass. He and that girl of his live there. I reckon though,” he grinned suddenly, “she won’t be there much longer. Hear tell she’s goin’ to work in the Longhorn Dance Hall.”
“Betty London? In the Longhorn?” Tack exclaimed. “Don’t make me laugh, partner! Betty’s too nice a girl for that! She wouldn’t …”
“They got it advertised,” the brown hatted man said calmly. An hour later a very thoughtful Tack Gentry rode up the dusty street of Sunbonnet. In that hour of riding he had been doing a lot of thinking, and he was remembering what Soderman had said. He was to tell Hardin or Olney that Soderman had sent him to get all that was coming to him. Suddenly, that remark took on a new significance.
Tack swung down in front of the Longhorn. Emblazoned on the front of the saloon was a huge poster announcing that Betty London was the coming attraction, that she would sing and entertain at the Longhorn. Compressing his lips, Tack walked into the saloon.
Nothing was familiar except the bar and the tables. The man behind the bar was squat and fat, his eyes peered at Tack from folds of flesh. “What’s it for yuh?” he demanded.
“Rye,” Tack said. He let his eyes swing slowly around the room. Not a familiar face greeted him. Shorty Davis was gone. Nick Farmer was not around. These men were strangers, a tight mouthed, hard eyed crew.
; Gentry glanced at the bartender. “Any ridin’ jobs around here? Driftin’ through, and thought I might like to tie in with one of the outfits around here.”
“Keep driftin’,” the bartender said, not glancing at him. “Everybody’s got a full crew.”
One door swung open and a tall, clean cut man walked into the room, glancing around. He wore a neat gray suit and a dark hat. Tack saw the bartender’s eyes harden, and glanced thoughtfully at the newcomer. The man’s face was very thin, and when he removed his hat his ash blond hair was neatly combed.
He glanced around, and his eyes lighted on Tack. “Stranger?” he asked pleasantly. “Then may I buy you a drink? I don’t like to drink alone, but haven’t sunk so low as to drink with these coyotes.”
Tack stiffened, expecting a reaction from some of the seated men, but there was none. Puzzled, he glanced at the blond man, and seeing the cynical good humor in the man’s eyes, nodded.
“Sure, I’ll drink with you.”
“My name,” the tall man added, “is Anson Childe, by profession, a lawyer, by dint of circumstances, a gambler, and by choice, a student.
“You perhaps wonder,” he added, “why these men do not resent my reference to them as coyotes. There are three reasons, I expect. The first is that some subconscious sense of truth makes them appreciate the justice of the term. Second, they know I am gifted with considerable dexterity in expounding the gospel of Judge Colt. Third, they know that I am dying of tuberculosis and as a result have no fear of bullets.
“It is not exactly fear that keeps them from drawing on me. Let us say it is a matter of mathematics, and a problem none of them has succeeded in solving with any degree of comfort in the result. It is: how many of them would die before I did?
“You can appreciate, my friend, the quandary in which this places them, and also the disagreeable realization that bullets are no respecters of persons, nor am I. The several out there who might draw know that I know who they are. The result is that they know they would be first to die.”
Childe looked at Tack thoughtfully. “I heard you ask about a riding job as I came in. You look like an honest man, and there is no place here for such.”
Gentry hunted for the right words, then he said, “This country looks like it was settled by honest men.”
Anson Childe studied his glass. “Yes,” he said, “but at the right moment they lacked a leader. One was too opposed to violence, another was too law abiding, and the rest lacked resolution.”
If there was a friend in the community, this man was it. Tack finished his drink and strode to the door. The bartender met his eyes as he glanced back.
“Keep on driftin’,” the bartender said.
Tack Gentry smiled. “I like it here,” he said, “and I’m stayin’!”
He swung to the saddle and turned his buckskin toward Sunbonnet Pass. He still had no idea exactly what had happened during the year of his absence, yet Childe’s remark coupled with what the others had said told him a little. Apparently, some strong, resolute men had moved in and taken over, and there had been no concerted fight against them, no organization and no leadership.
Childe had said that one was opposed to violence. That would have been his Uncle John. The one who was too law abiding would be Bill London. London had always been strong for law and order, and settling things in a legal way. The others had been honest men, but small ranchers, and individually unable to oppose whatever was done to them. Yet whatever had happened, the incoming elements had apparently moved with speed and finesse.
Had it been one ranch, it would have been different. But the ranches and the town seemed completely subjugated.
The buckskin took the trail at an easy canter, skirting the long red cliff of Horse Thief Mesa and wading the creek at Gunsight. Sunbonnet Pass opened before him like a gate in the mountains. To the left, in a grove of trees, was a small adobe house and a corral.
Two horses were standing at the corral as he rode up. His eyes narrowed as he saw them. Button and Blackie! Two of his uncle’s favorites and two horses he had raised from colts. He swung down and started toward them, when he saw the three people on the steps.
He turned to face them, and his heart jumped. Betty London had not changed.
Her eyes widened, and her face went dead white. “Tack!” she gasped. “Tack Gentry!”
Even as she spoke, Tack saw the sudden shock with which the two men turned to stare. “That’s right, Betty,” he said quietly, “I just got home.”
“But—but—we heard you were dead!”
“I’m not.” His eyes shifted to the two men. A thick shouldered, deep chested man with a square, swarthy face, and the lean rawboned man wearing a star. The one with the star would be Dick Olney. The other must be Van Hardin.
Tack’s eyes swung to Olney. “I heard my Uncle John Gentry was killed. Did yuh investigate his death?”
Olney’s eyes were careful. “Yeah,” he said, “he was killed in a fair fight. Gun in his hand.”
“My uncle,” Tack replied, “was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence in his life!”
“He was a might slow, I reckon,” Olney said coolly, “but he had the gun in his hand when I found him.”
“Who shot him?”
“Hombre name of Soderman. But like I say, it was a fair fight.”
“Like blazes!” Tack flashed. “Yuh’ll never make me believe Uncle John wore a gun! That gun was planted on him!”
“Yuh’re jumpin’ to conclusions,” Van Hardin said smoothly. “I saw the gun myself. There were a dozen witnesses.”
“Who saw the fight?” Gentry demanded.
“They saw the gun in his hand. In his right hand,” Hardin said.
Tack laughed suddenly, harshly. “That does it! Uncle John’s right hand has been useless ever since Shiloh when it was shot to pieces tryin’ to get to a wounded soldier. He couldn’t hold a feather in those fingers, let alone a gun!”
Hardin’s face tightened, and Dick Olney’s eyes shifted to Hardin’s face.
“You’d be better off,” Hardin said quietly, “to let sleepin’ dogs lie. We ain’t goin’ to have yuh comin’ in here stirrin’ up a peaceful community.”
“My Uncle John was murdered,” Gentry said quietly, “I mean to see his murderer punished. That ranch belongs to me. I intend to get it back!”
Van Hardin smiled. “Evidently, yuh aren’t aware of what happened here,” he said quietly. “Your Uncle John was in a noncombatant outfit durin’ the War, was he not? Well, while he was gone, the ranch he had claimed was abandoned. Soderman and I started to run cattle on that range and the land that was claimed by Bill London. No claim to the range was asserted by anyone. We made improvements, then durin’ our temporary absence with a trail herd, John Gentry and Bill London returned and moved in. Naturally, when we returned the case was taken to court. The court ruled the ranches belonged to Soderman and myself.”
“And the cattle?” Tack asked. “What of the cattle my uncle owned?”
Hardin shrugged. “The brand had been taken over by the new owners and registered in their name. As I understand it, yuh left on a trail herd immediately after yuh came back to Texas. My claim was originally asserted during yore Uncle’s absence. I could,” he smiled, “lay claim to the money yuh got from that trail herd. Where is it?”
“Suppose yuh find out?” Tex replied. “I’m goin’ to tell yuh one thing: I’m goin’ to find who murdered my uncle, if it was Soderman or not. I’m also goin’ to fight yuh in court. Now, if yuh’ll excuse me,” he turned his eyes to Betty who had stood wide-eyed and silent, “I’d like to talk to Bill London.”
“He can’t see yuh,” Hardin said. “He’s asleep.”
Gentry’s eyes hardened. “You runnin’ this place too?”
“Betty London is going to work for me,” Hardin replied. “We may be married later, so in a sense, I’m speaking for her.”
“Is that right?” Tack demanded, his eyes meeting Betty’s.
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sp; Her face was miserable. “I’m afraid it is, Tack.”
“You’ve forgotten your promise then?” he demanded.
“Things—things changed, Tack,” she faltered. “I—I can’t talk about it.”
“I reckon, Gentry,” Olney interrupted, “it’s time yuh rode on. There’s nothin’ in this neck of the woods for yuh. Yuh’ve played out yore hand here. Ride on, and you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble. They’re hirin’ hands over on the Pecos.”
“I’m stayin’,” Gentry said flatly.
“Remember,” Olney warned, “I’m the sheriff. At the first sign of trouble, I’ll come lookin’ for yuh.”
CHAPTER TWO: The Fight Begins
Gentry swung into the saddle, his eyes shifted to Betty’s face and for an instant, she seemed about to speak, then he turned and rode away. He did not look back. It was not until after he was gone that he remembered Button and Blackie.
To think they were in the possession of Hardin and Olney! The twin blacks he had reared and worked with, training them to do tricks, teaching them all the lore of the cow-country horses and much more.
The picture was clear now. In the year in which he had been gone these men had come in, asserted their claims, taken them to carpetbag courts, and made them stick. Backing their legal claims with guns, they had taken over the country with speed and finesse. At every turn, he was blocked. Betty had turned against him. Bill London was either a prisoner in his own house, or something was wrong. Olney was sheriff, and probably they had their own judge.
He could quit. He could pull out and go on to the Pecos. It would be the easiest way. It was even what Uncle John might have wished him to do, for John Gentry was a peace loving man. Tack Gentry was of another breed. His father had been killed fighting Comanches, and Tack had gone to war when a mere boy. Uncle John had found a place for himself in a noncombatant outfit, but Tack had fought long and well.
His ride north with the trail herd had been rough and bloody. Twice they had fought off Indians, once they had mixed it with rustlers. In Ellsworth, a gunman named Paris had made trouble that ended with Paris dead on the floor.
Tack had left town in a hurry, ridden to the new camp at Dodge, and then joined a trail herd headed for Wyoming. Indian fighting had been the order of the day, and once, rounding up a bunch of steers lost from the herd in a stampede, Tack had run into three rustlers after the same steers.
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