The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2

by Louis L'Amour

  “Look!” Westmore pointed. Three Apaches were riding off into the distance. “They’ve quit.”

  Westmore started to rise but Bowdrie jerked him down. “It’s an old trick,” he explained. “Two or three ride off and the rest wait in ambush. When you start movin’ around, they kill you.”

  The sun slid down behind the mountains in the distance and the desert grew cool. It was ever so. There was nothing to hold the heat, and night cooled things off very quickly. Stars came out and a coyote yipped, a coyote with a brown skin and a headband. Bowdrie dug into his saddlebag and brought out a piece of jerky for each. It was dry and tough but it lasted a long time and was nourishing. They chewed in silence.

  A faint gray lingered, disappeared and gave birth to stars. Chick tossed his saddle blanket to the youngsters. Westmore peered from behind the rocks.

  “You reckon those that left will come back with more?”

  “Could be. In fact, it’s more than likely.”

  “My name’s Westmore,” the man repeated, looking from one to the other.

  “I’m Tensleep Mooney. This here’s a Texas Ranger named Bowdrie. He’s been on my trail for weeks.”

  The woman was puzzled. “He wants to arrest you? Why?”

  “This gent here,” Bowdrie said, “is too handy with a gun. The governor wants more taxpayers and this gent has been thinnin’ down the population somethin’ awful.”

  “But you’ll let him go now, won’t you?”

  Mooney chuckled. “This here Sou-wegian ain’t got me yet, an’ it’ll be a cold day in Kansas before he does.”

  “Soon as we’re rid of these Apaches,” Chick said, “I’ll hog-tie you and take you back. I’ll give you about two drinks between here an’ Austin.” He turned his head toward Westmore and his wife. “You know what this squatty good-for-nothin’ did?

  “He knows this country better than anybody. Knows ever’ water hole. He passes one by, then swings back in the dark, gets him a drink, an’ fills his canteen. Then he goes back to where I last saw him, lets me see him again, an’ takes off in the dark. I have to follow him or lose him, so I’ve spent my days drier than a year-old buffalo chip!”

  Talk died and they lay listening. There was no sound. Bowdrie turned to Mooney. “I’m goin’ out there. There’s at least one Apache out there, prob’ly more. I need a horse. When I get me a horse we’ll light out. ‘Paches don’t like night fightin’ an’ we should make a run for it.”

  He dropped his gunbelts, then thrust one pistol into his waistband along with his bowie knife. He removed his spurs and jacket, then disappeared into the night.

  The woman looked at Mooney. “Will he get back? How can he do this?”

  “If anybody can do it,” Mooney said, “he can. He’s more Injun than many Injuns. Anyway, he’s got no choice. He surely ain’t goin’ out of here a-foot.”

  There was a shallow arroyo nearby and Bowdrie found it and went down the sand bank to its bottom, then paused to listen.

  He started on, paused again, hearing a faint sound he could not place, then went on. He was circling cautiously, feeling his way, when he heard a horse blow. He circled even wider, then dropped to the sand and crept nearer. He found them unexpectedly, six horses picketed in the bottom of the arroyo. Six horses did not necessarily mean six Indians, for some of the riders might already lie among the dead.

  Try as he could, he saw no sleeping place, nor did he see any Indians or evidence of a fire, which they probably would not have, anyway.

  Just as he was about to move toward the horses, an Indian arose from the ground and went to them. He moved around them, then returned to his bed on the sand a few yards away. When the Indian was quiet, Bowdrie moved to the horses. Selecting the nearest for his own, he drew the picket pins of all the horses, reflecting they must be stolen horses, for it was unlike Apaches to use picket pins, preferring the nearest bush or tree.

  He moved to the horse he had chosen and swung to its back. The horse snorted at the unfamiliar smell and instantly there was movement from the Indian.

  Slapping his heels to the horse, Bowdrie charged into the night, leading the other horses behind him. He turned at the flash of a gun and fired three quick shots into the flash.

  Circling swiftly, he arrived at camp. “Roll out an’ mount up!” he said. “We’re leavin’ out of here!”

  He saddled swiftly, and they rode into the night. Three days later they rode into the dusty streets of El Paso. The Westmores turned toward New Mexico and the ranch of a relative. They parted company in the street and Mooney started for his horse. “Far enough, Mooney! Don’t forget, you’re my prisoner!”

  “Your what?”

  Mooney threw himself sidewise into an arroyo but Bowdrie did not move. “Won’t do you a bit of good. Might as well give up! I’ve got you!”

  “You got nothin’!” Mooney yelled. “Just stick your head around that corner and I’ll—!”

  “Be mighty dry where you’re goin’, Mooney. And you without a canteen.”

  “What? Why, you dirty sidewinder! You stole my canteen!”

  “Borrowed it. You killed ’em all in fair fights, Mooney, so’s you might as well stand trial. I’ll ride herd on you so’s you’ll be safe whilst the trial’s on.

  “I’ve got the water, Mooney, and I have the grub, and the Baggs outfit has more friends here than you do. If you go askin’ around, you’ll really get your hide stretched. Looks to me like your only way is to come along with me.”

  There was silence and then Bowdrie said, “I will give you more than two drinks betwixt here an’ Austin, Mooney. I was only makin’ a joke about that.”

  There was no sound and Bowdrie knew what was happening. “If you’re wise,” he said loudly, “you’ll come in an’ surrender. No sense havin’ an outlaw’s name when you don’t deserve it.

  “I’ll even testify for you. I’ll tell ’em you were a miserable coyote not fit to herd sheep but that you’re a first-class fightin’ man.”

  Silence. Bowdrie smiled and walked back to his horse. By now Mooney was headed out of town, headed back to the boondocks where he came from, but he’d come in, Bowdrie was sure of it. Just give him time to think it over.

  He had warned him about El Paso, and he was too good a man to be in prison. Maybe a day would come when a Ranger couldn’t use his own judgment, but Bowdrie had used his and was sure ninety percent of the others would agree. By now Tensleep was on his way to wherever he wanted to go.

  Bowdrie walked his horse back down the street from the edge of town. This wasn’t a bad horse, not as good as his roan waiting for him back in Laredo, but better than the bay lying dead in Sonora. The spare Indian horses he had given to Westmore. After all, they were going to start over with all too little.

  Bowdrie tied his horse to the hitch-rail and went inside to the bar and ordered a cold beer. Taking it, he walked to a table and sat down.

  Well, maybe he was wrong. Maybe McNelly wouldn’t agree with his turning Mooney loose, but—

  “All right, dammit!” Tensleep dropped into the chair opposite. “Take me in, if it makes you feel better. I just ain’t up to another chase like that one.” He looked at Bowdrie. “Can I keep my guns until I get there?”

  “Why not?” Bowdrie looked around. “Bartender, bring the man a beer.”

  They sat without speaking, then Tensleep said, “You notice something? Those youngsters back there? Never a whimper out of ’em, an’ they must have been scared.”

  “Sure they were scared. I was scared.” Bowdrie glanced at Mooney, a reflective glint in his eye. “You know, Mooney, what you need is a wife. You need a home. Take some of that wildness out of you. Now, I—”

  “You go to the devil,” Mooney replied cheerfully.

  Strange Pursuit

  Years had brought no tolerance to Bryan Moseley. Sun, wind, and the dryness of a sandy sea had brought copper to his skin and drawn fine lines around his pale blue eyes. The far lands had touched him with their silence, a
nd the ways of men as well as the ways he had chosen brought lines of cruelty to his mouth and had sunk thoughts of cruelty deep into the convolutions of his brain, so deeply they shone forth in the flat light of his eyes.

  “No, I don’t know where he is. If I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. Don’t tell me I’m going to hang. I heard the judge when he said it. Don’t tell me it’ll relieve my soul because whatever burden my soul carries, it will carry to the end. I lived my life and I’m no welsher.”

  Chick Bowdrie sat astride the chair, his arms resting on the back, his black hat on the back of his head. He found himself liking this mean old man who would cheerfully shoot him down if he had a chance to escape.

  “Your soul is your problem, but Charlie Venk is mine. I’ve got to find him.”

  “You won’t find him settin’ where you are.”

  “Known him long?”

  “You Rangers know everything, so you should know that, too.” The old outlaw’s eyes flared. “Not that I’ve any use for him. He never trusted me an’ I never trusted him. I will say this. He is good with a gun. He is as good as any of them. He was even better’n me. If he hadn’t been I’d have killed him.”

  “Or was it because you needed him? You were gettin’ old, Mose.”

  The old man chuckled without humor. “Sure, I could use him, all right. Trouble was, he used me.”

  “How was that?” Bowdrie took out a sack of tobacco and papers and tossed them to the prisoner. “I figured you for the smartest of them all.”

  “Just what I figured.” Mose took up the tobacco and began to build a smoke. “Don’t think you’re gettin’ around me, I just feel like talkin’. Maybe it is time they hung me. I am gettin’ old.”

  He sifted tobacco into the paper. “We had that bank down in Kelsey lined up. I done the linin’. Never did trust nobody to do that. The others always overlooked something. On’y thing I overlooked was Charlie Venk.

  “You seen him? He’s a big, fine-lookin’ young man. Strong-made, but quick. I seen plenty of ’em come an’ go in my time. Seen the James boys an’ the Youngers. Cole, he was the best of that lot. Jesse, he had a streak of meanness in him, like the time he shot that schoolboy with his arms full of books. No need for it.

  “Charlie reminded me of Cole. Big man, like Cole, an’ good-lookin’. I never trust them kind. Always figure they’re better’n anybody else. ‘Cept maybe Cole. He never did.

  “We got that bank job lined up. There was four of us in it. Charlie, Rollie Burns, Jim Sloan, an’ me, of course. Burns an’ Sloan, they were bad. Mean men, if you know what I mean, and they couldn’t be trusted. Not that it mattered, because I never trusted anybody myself. An’ nobody ever trusted me.

  “Ever see Charlie sling a gun? I’ve heard you’re fast, Bowdrie, but if you ever tangle with Charlie you’ll go down. Not only is he fast but he can lay ’em right where he wants ’em, no matter how rough it gets.

  “He was slick on a trail, too, but if you’ve already trailed him across three states, you know that. He was a first-rate horse thief. Given time, I’ll tell you about that.

  “Anyway, about noon we come down this street into town. No nice town like this’n. She was a dusty, miserable place with six saloons, two general stores, a bank, and a few odds and ends of places. We come in about noon, like I say. Sloan, he was holdin’ the horses, so the rest of us got down an’ went in.

  “There was a woman an’ two men in that bank. Two customers an’ the teller. Rollie, he put his gun on the woman an’ the man customer an’ backed them into a corner, faced against the wall. At least, the man was. Rollie, he didn’t pay much mind to the woman.

  “Charlie, he pushed the teller over alongside of them an’ vaulted the rail to start scoopin’ money into a sack.

  “Out front Sloan leans over to look into the bank an’ he says, ‘Watch it! The town’s wakin’ up fast!’

  “Charlie, he was a smooth worker with no lost motion and he had cleaned up more cash than I had. We started for the door an’ the teller, he takes a dive for his desk. Maybe he had a gun back there. Rollie backs his hammer to shoot an’ Charlie says, ‘Hold it, you fool!’ An’ he slaps the teller with his gun barrel an’ the teller hit the floor cold as a wedge.

  “Then we hit the leather and shot our way out of town. We rode like the devil for those first six miles, knowin’ there would be a posse. Then we reached the grove where more horses were waitin’. It taken us on’y a moment to switch saddles. We rode out at a canter an’ held it, knowin’ the posse would almost kill their horses gettin’ to that grove.

  “We got away. Ten miles further we switched horses for the third and last time. By then the posse was out of the runnin’ and we doubled back in the hills, headed for our hangout. Rollie was ridin’ a grouch an’ Charlie, he was singin’. Nice voice, he had.

  “Suddenly Rollie says, his voice kind of funny, ‘Nobody calls me a fool!’ We all look around an’ he had the drop on Charlie. Had the gun right on him. Well, what d’you expect? Me an’ Sloan, we just backed off. Whoever won, it was more money for the rest of us, an’ Charlie had always figured he was pretty salty. He was, too. Right then we found out how salty.

  “ ‘Aim to kill me, Rollie?’

  “ ‘What d’you expect? I had that durned teller dead to rights.’

  “ ‘Sure you did,’ Charlie said, easy-like. ‘Sure you did. But maybe that teller had a wife and kids. If you’ve got no thought for them, think of this. Nobody back there is dead. All that’s gone is the bank’s money. Nobody will run us very far for that, but if we killed a family man they’d never quit.’ ”

  “He was right,” Bowdrie said.

  “ ‘You ain’t talkin’ yourself out o’ this!’ Rollie says. ‘I aim to—’

  “Charlie Venk shot him right between the eyes. That’s right! Got him to talkin’ an’ off guard, then drew an’ fired so fast we scarcely knowed what happened. Rollie, he slid from the saddle an’ Charlie never looked at him. He just looked at us. He had that gun in his hand an’ was smilin’ a little. ‘I wasn’t askin’ for trouble,’ he said. ‘You boys want to take it up?’

  “ ‘Hell no! Rollie always had a grouch on,’ Sloan says. ‘Leave him lay.’

  “We camped that night at a good place Charlie knew. Three ways out, good water, grass an’ cover. We ate good that night. Charlie, he was a good cook when he wanted to be, an’ he really laid it on. Like a dumb fool, I ate it up an’ so did Sloan. After all, none of us had et a good meal in a week. We et it up an’ then Charlie outs with a bottle an’ we had a few drinks. Charlie was a talker, an’ he was yarnin’ away that night in a low, kind of dronin’ voice. An’ we’d come a hard ride that day. Before we knew it, we were dozin’.

  “Of a sudden I come awake an’ it was broad daylight! Yessir, I’d fallen asleep right where I lay, boots an’ all! What made me maddest of all was that I’d figured on gettin’ up whilst the others were asleep an’ skippin’ with the cash.

  “There was Sloan, still fast asleep. An’ Charlie? You guessed it. Charlie was gone.

  “He had hightailed. No, he didn’t take our money but he did take Rollie’s share, but that was half of it. Oh, yeah! He dipped into our share for a dollar each an’ left a note sayin’ it was for the extra grub an’ the whiskey. Why, that—!”

  Bowdrie chuckled. “You never saw him again?”

  “Not hide nor hair.” Mose got to his feet. “You catch up with him, you watch it. Charlie’s got him some tricks. Slips out of cuffs, ropes, anything tied to his wrists. Mighty supple, he is. I seen him do it.

  “Good at imitatin’, too. He can listen to a man talk, then imitate him so’s his own wife wouldn’t know the difference.”

  One hundred and four miles north, the cowtown of Chollo gathered memories in the sun. Along the boardwalk a half-dozen idlers avoided work by sitting in the shade. Chick Bowdrie’s hammerhead roan sloped along the street like a hungry hound looking for a bone.

  Outside the livery stable a man ke
pt his stomach on his knees by using a rope for a belt. When Bowdrie swung to the ground the flesh around what seemed to be one of the man’s chins quivered and a voice issued, a high, thin voice.

  “Hay inside, oats in the bin, water at the trough. He’p yourself an’ it’s two bits the night. You stayin’ long?”

  “Just passin’ through.” Bowdrie shoved his hat back on his head, a characteristic gesture, and watched the roan. Bowdrie lived with the roan the way Pete Kitchen had lived with Apaches. Safe as long as he watched them.

  “Any strangers around?”

  “Rarely is. Rarely.”

  “Ever hear of Charlie Venk?”

  “Nope.”

  “Big gent, nice-lookin’, an’ prob’ly ridin’ a black horse. Good with his gun.”

  Both eyes were wide open now, and the fat man peered at him with genuine interest. “We never knowed his name. Never saw him use a gun, but we know him. He’s the gent that hung our sheriff.”

  “Hung your what?”

  “Sheriff. Ed Lightsen.” A fat middle finger pointed. “Hung him to that big limb on the cottonwood yonder.”

  “He hung the sheriff?”

  A chuckle issued from the rolls of fat. “Uh-huh. He surely did! Best joke aroun’ here in a year. The sheriff, he was aimin’ to hang this gent, an’ he got hung hisself. Funny part of it was, it was the sheriff’s own rope.”

  The fat man leaned forward. There were rolls of fat on the back of his neck and shoulders.

  “This gent you speak of. Venk, his name was? He come in here about an hour before sunset ridin’ a wore-out bronc. He was carrying some mighty heavy saddlebags an’ he was a big man himself, an’ that bronc had been runnin’.

  “Nobody has any extry horses in this town. All out on roundups. Stingy with ’em, anyway. This gent, he tried to buy one, had no luck a-tall, but he hung around. Split a quart with the boys over at the saloon. Sang ’em some songs an’ yarned with ’em. Come sundown, he walked out of there an’ stole the sheriff’s sorrel.

  “That’s right, the sheriff’s sorrel. Now, the sheriff had been makin’ his brag that nobody but him could ride that horse. This here Venk, as you call him, he got astride an’ he stayed astride for just one mile. Then he came head-on into ten of those hard-case riders of Fairly’s. They recognized the horse and threw down on him before he even realized he was in trouble. They brought him back into town.