If this herd had come far and fast, he had come farther and faster, and with just as great a need. Now there was nothing behind him but trouble, and nothing before him but bleak years of drifting ahead of a reputation.
Up ahead was Mart Ray, and Ray was as much a friend as he had. Gunfighters are admired by many, respected by some, feared by all, and welcomed by none. His father had warned him of what to expect, warned him long ago before he himself had died in a gun battle. “You’re right handy, son,” he had warned, “one of the fastest I ever seen, so don’t let it be known. Don’t never draw a gun on a man in anger, an’ you’ll live happy. Once you get the name of a gunfighter, you’re on a lonesome trail, an’ there’s only one ending.”
So he had listened, and he had avoided trouble. Mart Ray knew that. Ray was himself a gunman. He had killed six men of whom Jim Gary knew, and no doubt there had been others. He and Mart had been riding together in Texas and then in a couple of trail drives, one all the way to Montana. He never really got close to Mart, but they had been partners after a fashion.
Ray had always been amused at his eagerness to avoid trouble, although he had no idea of the cause of it. “Well,” he had said, “they sure cain’t say like father, like son. From all I hear your pappy was an uncurried wolf, an’ you fight shy of trouble. You run from it. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you was yaller.”
But Mart Ray had known him well, for it had been Jim who rode his horse down in front of a stampede to pick Ray off the ground, saving his life. They got free, but no more, and a thousand head of cattle stampeded over the ground where Ray had stood.
Then, a month before, down in the Big Bend country, trouble had come, and it was trouble he could not avoid. It braced him in a little Mexican cantina just over the river, and in the person of a dark, catlike Mexican with small feet and dainty hands, but his guns were big enough and there was an unleashed devil in his eyes.
Jim Gary had been dancing with a Mexican girl, and the Mexican had jerked her from his arms and struck her across the face. Jim knocked him down, and the Mexican got up, his eyes fiendish. Without a word, the Mexican went for his gun, and for a frozen, awful instant, Jim saw his future facing him, and then his own hand went down and he palmed his gun in a flashing, lightning draw that rapped out two shots. The Mexican, who had reached first, barely got his gun clear before he was dead. He died on his feet and then fell.
In a haze of powder smoke and anguish, Jim Gary had wheeled and strode from the door, and behind him lay a dead and awful silence. It was not until two days later that he knew who and what he had killed.
The lithe-bodied Mexican had been Miguel Sonoma, and he had been a legend along the border. A tough, dangerous man with a reputation as a killer.
Two nights later, a band of outlaws from over the border rode down upon Gary’s little spread to avenge their former leader, and two of them died in the first blast of gunfire, a matter of handguns at point-blank range.
From the shelter of his cabin, Gary fought them off for three days before the smoke from his burning barn attracted help. When the help arrived, Jim Gary was a man with a name. Five dead men lay on the ground around the ranch yard and in the desert nearby. The wounded had been carried away. And the following morning, Jim turned his ranch over to the bank to sell and lit a shuck—away from Texas.
Of this, Mart Ray knew nothing. Half of Texas and all of New Mexico, or most of it, would lie behind him when Jim reached the banks of Salt Creek. Mart Ray was ramrodding the Double A, and he would have a job for him.
Jim Gary turned the horse and rode slowly back along the side of the herd. The cattle had taken their midnight stretch and after standing around a bit, were lying down once more. The rain was falling, but softly, and Gary let the gray take his own time in skirting the herd.
The night was pitch dark. Only the horns of the cattle glistened with rain, and their bodies were darker blobs in the blackness of the night. Once, drawing up near the willows along the stream, Jim thought he detected a vague sound. He waited a moment, listening. On such a night nobody would be abroad who could help it, and it was unlikely that a mountain lion would be on the prowl, although possible.
He started on again, yet now his senses were alert, and his hand slid under his slicker and touched the butt of a .44. He was almost at the far end of the small herd when a sudden flash of lightning revealed the hillside across the narrow valley.
Stark and clear, glistening with rain, sat a horseman! He was standing in his stirrups, and seemed amazingly tall, and in the glare of the flash, his face was stark white, like the face of a fleshless skull!
Startled, Gary grunted and slid his gun into his hand, but all was darkness again, and listen as he could, he heard no further sound. When the lightning flashed again, the hillside was empty and still. Uneasily, he caught himself staring back over his shoulder into the darkness, and he watched his horse. The gray was standing, head up and ears erect, staring off toward the darkness near the hill. Riding warily, Gary started in that direction, but when he got there, he found nothing.
It was almost daylight when he rode up to the fire which he had kept up throughout the night, and swinging down, he awakened Dirksen. The man sat up, startled. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You forget to call me?”
Jim grinned at him. “Just figured I was already up an’ a good cook needed his sleep.”
Jeeter stared at him. “You mean you rode for me? Say, you’re all right!”
“Forget it!” Gary stretched. “I had a quiet night, mostly.”
Red Slagle was sitting up, awakened by their talk. “What do you mean—mostly?”
Jim hesitated, feeling puzzled. “Why, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether I saw anything or not, but I sure thought I did. Anyway, it had me scared.”
“What was it?” Slagle was pulling on his pants, but his eyes were serious. “A lion?”
“No, it was a man on a horse. A tall man with a dead-white face, like a skull.” Gary shrugged sheepishly. “Makes me sound like a fool, but I figured for a moment that I’d seen a ghost!”
Red Slagle was staring at him, and Jeeter’s face was dead white and his eyes were bulging. “A ghost?” he asked, faintly. “Did you say, a ghost?”
“Shucks,” Gary shrugged, “there ain’t no such thing. Just some hombre on a big black horse, passin’ through in the night, that was all! But believe me, seein’ him in the lightnin’ up on that hill like I did, it sure was scary!”
Tobe Langer was getting up, and he, too, looked bothered. Slagle came over to the fire and sat down, boots in hand. Reaching down he pulled his sock around to get a hole away from his big toe; then he put his foot into the wet boot and began to struggle with it.
“That horse, now,” Langer asked carefully, “did it have a white star between the eyes?”
Gary was surprised. “Why, yes! Matter of fact, it did! You know him?”
Slagle let go of the boot and stomped his foot to settle it in the boot. “Yeah, feller we seen down the road a ways. Big black horse.”
Slagle and Langer walked away from camp a ways and stood talking together. Jeeter was worried. Jim could see that without half trying, and he studied the man thoughtfully. Jeeter Dirksen was a small man, quiet, but inclined to be nervous. He had neither the strength nor the toughness of Slagle and Langer. If Gary learned anything about the cattle it would be through his own investigation or from Jeeter. And he was growing more and more curious.
Yet if these were Double A cattle and had been stolen, why were they being driven toward the Double A ranch, rather than away from it? He realized suddenly that he knew nothing at all about Red Slagle or his outfit, and it was time he made some inquiries.
“This Double A,” he asked suddenly, “you been riding’ for them long?”
Dirksen glanced at him sharply and bent over his fire. “Not long,” he said. “It’s a Salt Creek outfit. Slagle’s segundo.”
“Believe I know your foreman,” Gary suggeste
d. “I think this was the outfit he said. Hombre name of Mart Ray. Ever hear of him?”
Jeeter turned sharply, slopping coffee over the rim of the cup. It hissed in the fire, and both the other men looked around at the camp. Jeeter handed the cup to Gary and studied him, searching his face. Then he admitted cautiously, “Yeah, Ray’s the foreman. Ranch belongs to a syndicate out on the coast. You say you know him?”
“Uh-huh. Used to ride with him.” Langer and Slagle had walked back to the fire, and Dirksen poured coffee for them.
“Who was that you rode with?” Slagle asked.
“Your boss, Mart Ray.”
Both men looked up sharply; then Slagle’s face cleared and he smiled. “Say! that’s why the name was familiar! You’re that Jim Gary! Son of old Steve Gary. Yeah, Mart told us about you.”
Langer chuckled suddenly. “You’re the scary one, huh? The one who likes to keep out of trouble. Yeah, we heard about you!”
The contempt in his tone stiffened Jim’s back, and for an instant he was on the verge of a harsh retort. Then the memory of what lay behind him welled up within, and bitterly he kept his mouth shut. If he got on the prod and killed a man here, he would only have to drift farther. There was only one solution, and that was to avoid trouble. Yet irritating as it was to be considered lacking in courage, Langer’s remark let him know that the story of his fights had not preceded him.
“There’s no call,” he said after a minute, “to go around the country killin’ folks. If people would just get the idea they can get along without all that. Me, I don’t believe in fightin’.”
Langer chuckled, but Slagle said nothing, and Dirksen glanced at him sympathetically.
All day the herd moved steadily west, but now Gary noticed a change, for the others were growing more watchful as the day progressed. Their eyes continued to search the surrounding hills, and they rode more warily approaching any bit of cover.
Once, when Jeeter rode near him, the little man glanced across the herd at the other riders and then said quietly, “That was no ghost you saw. Red rode up there on the hill, an’ there was tracks, tracks of a mighty big black horse.”
“Wonder why he didn’t ride down to camp?” Jim speculated. “He sure enough saw the fire!”
Dirksen grunted. “If that hombre was the one Red thinks it is, he sure didn’t have no aim to ride down there!”
Before Gary could question him further, Jeeter rode off after a stray and cutting him back into the herd, rode on further ahead. Jim dropped back to the drag, puzzling over this new angle. Who could the strange rider be? What did he want? Was he afraid of Slagle?
A big brindle steer was cutting wide of the herd, and Jim swung out to get him, but dashing toward the stream, the steer floundered into the water and into quicksand. Almost at once, it was down, struggling madly, its eyes rolling.
Jim swung a loop and dropped it over the steer’s horns. If he could give the steer a little help now, there was a chance he could get it out before it bogged in too deep.
He started the buckskin back toward more solid ground and with the pull on the rope and the struggling of the steer, he soon had it out on the bank of the stream. The weary animal stumbled and went down, and shaking his loop loose, Gary swung his horse around to get the animal up. Something he saw on the flank made him swing down beside the steer. Curiously, he bent over the brand.
It had been worked over! The Double A had been burned on over a Slash Four!
“Somethin’ wrong?”
The voice was cold and level, and Jim Gary started guiltily, turning. Then his eyes widened. “Mart! Well, for cryin’ out in the nighttime! Am I glad to see you!”
Ray stared. “For the luvva Pete, if it ain’t Gary! Say, how did you get here? Don’t tell me you’re drivin’ that herd up ahead?”
“That’s right! Your outfit, ain’t it? I hired on back down the line. This steer just got hisself bogged down an’ I had a heck of a time gettin’ him out. You seen Red an’ the boys?”
“Not yet, I swung wide. Get that steer on his feet an’ we’ll join ’em.”
Yet as they rode back, despite Ray’s affability, Gary was disturbed. Something here was very wrong. This was a Slash Four steer with the brand worked over to a Double A, the brand for which Ray was foreman. If these cattle were rustled, then Mart Ray was party to it, and so were Slagle, Langer, and Dirksen! And if he was caught with these men and cattle, so was he!
He replied to Ray’s questions as well as he could, and briefly, aware that his friend was preoccupied and thinking of something else. Yet at the same time he was pleased that Ray asked him no questions about his reasons for leaving home.
Mart Ray rode up ahead and joined Slagle, and he could see the two men riding on together, deep in conversation. When they bedded down for the night, there had been no further chance to talk to him, and Gary was just as well satisfied, for there was much about this that he did not like. Nor was anything said about the midnight rider. When day broke, Mart Ray was gone. “Rode on to Salt Creek,” Red said. “We’ll see him there.” He glanced at Jim, his eyes amused. “He said to keep you on, that you was a top hand.”
Despite the compliment, Jim was nettled. What else had Ray told Slagle? His eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, he was not staying on. He was going to get shut of this outfit just as fast as he could. All he wanted was his time. Yet by midday he had not brought himself to ask for it.
Dirksen had grown increasingly silent, and he avoided Langer and Slagle. Watching him, Jim was puzzled by the man, but could find no reason for his behavior unless the man was frightened by something. Finally, Jim pulled up alongside Jeeter.
The man glanced at him and shook his head. “I don’t like this. Not even a little. She’s too quiet.”
Gary hesitated, waiting for the cowhand to continue, but he held his peace. Finally, Gary said, speaking slowly, “It is mighty quiet, but I see nothin’ wrong with that. I’m not hunting trouble.”
“Trouble,” Jeeter said dryly, “comes sometimes whether you hunt it or not. If anything breaks around this herd, take my advice an’ don’t ask no questions. Just scatter dust out of here!”
“Why are you warning me?” Gary asked.
Jeeter shrugged. “You seem like a right nice feller,” he said quietly. “Shame for you to get rung in on somethin’ as dirty as this when you had nothin’ to do with it.”
Despite his questions, Jeeter would say no more, and finally Gary dropped back to the drag. There was little dust because of the rains, but the drag was a rough deal, for the herd was tired and the cattle kept lagging back. Langer and Slagle, Jim observed, spent more time watching the hills than the cattle. Obviously, both men were as jumpy as Dirksen and were expecting something. Toward dusk Red left the herd and rode up a canyon into the hills.
Slagle was still gone, and Jim was squatting by the fire watching Jeeter throw grub together when there was a sudden shot from the hills to the north.
Langer stopped his nervous pacing and faced the direction of the shot, his hand on his gun. Jim Gary got slowly to his feet, and he saw that Jeeter’s knuckles gripping the frying pan were white and hard.
Langer was first to relax. “Red must have got him a turkey,” he said. “Few around here, and he was sayin’ earlier he’d sure like some.”
Nevertheless, Gary noted that Langer kept back from the firelight and had his rifle near at hand. There was a sound of an approaching horse, and Langer slid his rifle across his knees, but it was Slagle. He swung down, glancing toward the big man. “Shot at a turkey an’ missed.” Then he added, looking right at Langer, “Nothin’ to worry about now. This time for sure.”
Dirksen got suddenly to his feet. “I’m quittin’, Red. I don’t like this a-tall, not none. I’m gettin’ out.”
Slagle’s eyes were flat and ugly. “Sit down an’ shut up, Jeeter,” he said impatiently. “Tomorrow’s our last day. We’ll have a payday this side of Salt Creek, an’ then if you want to blow, why you can blow out
of here.”
Gary looked up. “I reckon you can have my time then, too,” he said quietly, “I’m ridin’ west for Pleasant Valley.”
“You?” Langer snorted. “Pleasant Valley? You better stay somewhere where you can be took care of. They don’t sidestep trouble out there.”
Gary felt something rise within him, but he controlled his anger with an effort. “I didn’t ask you for any comment, Tobe,” he said quietly. “I can take care of myself.”
Langer sneered. “Why, you yaller skunk! I heard all about you! Just because your pappy was a fast man, you must think folks are skeered of you! You’re yaller as saffron! You ain’t duckin’ trouble; you’re just scared!”
Gary was on his feet, his face white. “All you’ve got to do, Tobe, if you want to lose some teeth, is to stand up!”
“What?” Langer leaped to his feet. “Why, you dirty—”
Jim Gary threw a roundhouse left. The punch was wide, but it came fast, and Langer was not expecting Jim to fight. Too late, he tried to duck, but the fist caught him on the nose, smashing it and showering the front of his shirt with gore.
The big man was tough, and he sprang in, swinging with both hands. Gary stood his ground, and began to fire punches with both fists. For a full minute the two big men stood toe to toe and slugged wickedly, and then Gary deliberately gave ground. Overeager, Langer leaped after him, and Gary brought up a wicked right that stood Tobe on his boot toes and then a looping left that knocked him into the fire.
With a cry, he leaped from the flames, his shirt smoking. Ruthlessly, Gary grabbed him by the shirtfront and jerked him into a right hand to the stomach and then a right to the head, and shoving him away he split his ear with another looping left, smashing it like an overripe tomato. Langer went down in a heap.
Red Slagle had made no move to interfere, but his eyes were hard and curious as he stared up at Gary. “Now where,” he said, “did Ray get the idea that you wouldn’t fight?”
Gary spilled water from a canteen over his bloody knuckles. “Maybe he just figured wrong. Some folks don’t like trouble. That don’t mean they won’t fight when they have to.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 Page 5