Novel 1969 - Conagher (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Later, when they had eaten and were filing out to get aboard the stage, McCloud lingered. “Ma’am, you keep a sharp watch out for Injuns. They ain’t been troublesome right now, but it can start any time, and there’s always young bucks out for mischief.

  “Don’t give ’em anything. If you do, they’ll figure it’s a sign of fear. Make ’em trade. Any Injun understands trade and they cotton to it, but they’re notional, and their thinkin’ ain’t like ours.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McCloud. I will remember.”

  “You say your man went to buy cattle?”

  “He was looking for breeding stock. We hope to raise a good herd and start selling in about three years.”

  “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re all well.” McCloud touched the brim of his hat. “Be seein’ you, ma’am.”

  They stood out in front of the cabin and watched the stage until it disappeared around the next curve of the road. Then Evie turned. “Come, children,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

  All of them felt a new excitement. Laban was puffed up with importance over his new job. He was to be a hostler, at least until pa got home, and even after that if he could talk pa into letting him keep on with it—under pa’s supervision, of course.

  At sunset Evie walked away from the cabin and stood alone, her hair stirring a little in the faint breeze. She stood on the edge of the trail, a hundred yards from the cabin. All was very still.

  She never tired of the mornings and evenings here, the soft lights, the changing colors of sunlight and cloud upon the hills, the stirring of wind in the grass. Out here there was no escaping the sky or the plains, and Evie knew that until she came west she had never really known distance.

  The air was incredibly clear. Fresh and cool as it was, one breathed it in like drinking cool water; and always there was a definite odor on it, the odor depending on the direction from which the wind blew: the smell of cedar, and of pines beyond, the smell of sage, or, from the dryer lands after a rain, the smell of the creosote bush.

  She looked down now at the tracks in the road, the tracks of the passing stage, the first tracks in their road since Jacob left.

  Suddenly, she felt a chill. Superimposed on the tracks of the stage were the tracks of unshod ponies…Indian ponies!

  When could they have passed? How could she have missed seeing them?

  It must have been at suppertime, when they were at the table. The stage had left shortly after noon, and they had worked around the place, inside and out. Laban had fed the stock…yes, it must have been at suppertime.

  She walked a little way, studying the tracks. There seemed to have been two horses, and at one point the riders had drawn up, facing toward the cabin, perhaps listening to them talking.

  That was not over an hour ago. She turned abruptly and, gathering her skirt, started for the cabin. Even now they might be up in the cedars, watching her. She moved quickly.

  Laban met her at the door, brushing hay from his clothes. Ruthie was reading a newspaper one of the men had left with them.

  “What is it, ma? What’s wrong?” Laban asked.

  She hesitated for a moment, but they must be told. “Indians, Laban. I saw their tracks in the road. They must have come along while we were eating supper. We must be very careful.”

  That night she left a crack of the window open looking toward the corrals, and she placed the shotgun beside her. If the Indians came she supposed it would be for the horses, but although the coyotes howled the long night through, she heard no other sound.

  *

  BEFORE IT WAS time for the stage to come again, she carefully tamped down the earthen floor, and then, as she had seen her grandmother do years ago on their farm in Ohio, she traced a floral pattern on the floor to resemble a carpet. She was pleased with the result.

  When they were expecting the stage she put water on the fire and got food ready to serve, and then they waited.

  They heard the stage coming long before it arrived, heard the rattle of the wheels over stones, and the running horses.

  Charlie McCloud was driving again, and a different man was riding shotgun. He was a lean, round-shouldered man with a tough face and a hard-cut mouth. He was sporting a cut on his cheekbone and a black eye.

  “This here is Kiowa Staples,” Charlie said. “It looks like he run into something in the dark.”

  Staples threw him a hard glance. “It was some no-account saddle bum,” Staples said irritably. “I misjudged him. The next time we meet it won’t be fists we’ll use.”

  “Aw, forget it Kiowa,” Charlie said. “You brought it on yourself. There’s some men you just can’t push, an’ you pushed that one too far. You think it over an’ you won’t blame him none.”

  “I won’t blame him,” Staples replied, “but I’ll kill him.”

  There was one passenger, a portly man in a black derby and black suit who descended stiffly from the stage, stretched, and started toward the house.

  “My advice to you, Kiowa, is to leave that gent alone,” Charlie McCloud advised. “I’ve seen his kind before. You don’t find them swaggering around hunting trouble, because they’ve seen trouble a-plenty. They’ve been up the creek an’ over the mountain, they’ve hunted buffalo an’ they’ve fit Injuns an’ maybe outlaws, an’ they’ve done it like you an’ me hitch a team of horses—it’s ever’day work to them. You steer clear of that kind if you want to keep a whole hide…an’ a reputation.”

  Together McCloud and Kiowa packed the supplies in and placed them on the floor out of the way, while Evie put the food on the table. It was good solid food and all three men ate with relish.

  “Stays with you, that kind of grub,” Charlie said. “If I wasn’t married, Mrs. Teale, I’d surely come a-courtin’.”

  Evie blushed. “Thank you, Mr. McCloud. I’ve always liked to see a man enjoy his food.”

  Kiowa looked up at her. “No Injuns?”

  “We saw tracks,” Laban said, “right after you folks left, the last time. There were two of them.”

  “They were scoutin’ you,” Kiowa said, “and us. You keep a fresh eye, ma’am, and you worry some. It’ll likely be your saving.”

  When they were gone, Evie and Ruthie put the supplies away, while Laban went back to work on the shelter for the animals. It was crudely built and scarcely more than a windbreak, but Evie, watching him from a distance, saw that the boy worked with some assurance and not a little skill. Evidently he had watched his father and others, and perhaps had helped at such jobs before.

  Since his father had been gone Laban had been getting up earlier and working harder, and he had fussed much less with Ruthie than before. His sister was mystified by the change. Laban seemed suddenly grown up and far away from her. He went about his work with great seriousness, and did not wait to be asked. He did what needed doing, and Ruthie’s respect grew despite herself. She found herself speaking to him as she might to someone much older. At times it irked her, but Laban seemed not to notice; sometimes she deliberately teased him, hoping to arouse his irritation, to make him want to fight back, but he assumed a lofty attitude and only smiled or, worse yet, ignored her.

  In the week that passed the stage stopped only twice, and then on the day it was due to come again, three riders appeared, driving a herd of horses, a dozen of them to be left at the Teale place.

  One of the cowhands was a youngster, not over seventeen, the others were older men. Johnny McGivern came galloping on ahead, yelling at Laban. “Open the bars there, boy! We’re a-bringin’ in the hosses!”

  Laban ran to open the gate and the horses streamed in, and Johnny McGivern swung down to put up the bars after them.

  He was a smiling boy, and he grinned at Laban. “I hear you’re the hostler here. Well, there’s a stage comin’ through nigh on to noon, so you be set an’ ready. Any chance to get some grub?”

  “I’ll ask ma,” Laban replied with dignity, not sure how he should react to this free-talking stranger.

  One
of the older men was long and slim and redheaded, with red hair on the backs of his hands. “I’m Kris Mahler, son. This galoot sportin’ the remains of a shiner is Conn Conagher. Shy clear of him, boy, he’s got a burr under his saddle.”

  Conagher was a lean, dark man of about thirty-five, with black hair and mustache, and a stubble of beard. He wore a battered black hat, a shabby suit-coat and leather chaps. His boots were down at the heel, his gun scabbard worn, and the walnut grips looked as if they had seen much use.

  Conagher looked at Laban quite seriously. “Don’t you set much store by what Kris tells you, boy. I’m a right peace-loving man.”

  “Who gave you the black eye?” Laban asked.

  “Nobody gave it to me, son,” Conagher said. “I fought for it.”

  “That’s the second black eye we’ve seen,” Ruthie said. “Kiowa Staples had one, too.”

  When nobody replied to that, Ruthie added, “He says he’s going to kill the man who gave it to him.”

  Conn Conagher said nothing, but Kris Mahler threw him a quick glance and said, “Little girl, I reckon your ma wants to see you.”

  “Ain’t her fault,” Johnny McGivern said. “If Kiowa said it, he said it, that’s all!”

  Evie Teale came out of the door, drying her hands on her apron. “Won’t you gentlemen come in for a bite? There’s been no stage, and the food is ready.”

  “I’d take that kindly,” Mahler said. “Come on, Conn. Let’s eat and ride.”

  Conn lingered. He studied the crude shelter and Laban watched him, fearful of his comment. After a while, Conn nodded. “That’s a pretty good job, son. Did you do that all by yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Conn glanced at him. “Sir. Now that’s nice, right nice.”

  Conagher strolled over and took a closer look at the shelter. “It helps,” he said, “if when you start laying on cover you put the bottom ones on first, then put the next row a mite higher with part of it overlapping. Helps the water to run off.”

  “Thanks,” Laban said. He found himself liking the grim, dark-faced man, and the boy and man walked toward the cabin together. Outside the cabin Conn removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands and face, and then combed his black hair.

  He turned, looking across the valley into the distance. “I like that,” he said, gesturing toward the view. “Nothing like a wide-open country.”

  “We saw Indian tracks,” Laban said.

  Conagher stopped and looked at him, then tilted his hat brim down and studied the hills back of the cabin. “You got a rifle in there?”

  “We’ve got a shotgun.”

  “That’s good, but you’d better have a rifle too. When your pa gets here he’ll most likely have one.”

  They went inside. During the meal Mahler did most of the talking, aided by Johnny McGivern. Evie was bright and gay, excited by the company and glad to be hearing some news, even though much of it concerned events and people of whom she knew nothing.

  When the others had gone outside, Mahler lingered. “Your girl said something about Kiowa Staples threatening to kill the man he fought. Is that true?”

  “Well, he did say it. He was just talking.”

  “Not Kiowa. His kind don’t ‘just talk.’ He meant it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Only careless talk. Kiowa’d had a couple of drinks and he bumped into Conn a time or two. I won’t say it was a-purpose, but he was sure not tryin’ to avoid it. They had words and I figure Kiowa was expectin’ gunplay, only Conn belted him…knocked him down.

  “They went around and around there for a while, but this here saddle tramp—Conagher, I mean—he’s a mean one to tangle with, and he gave Kiowa a trimming.”

  “Will there be more trouble?”

  “No tellin’. Conagher’s a drifter. Never lights any place for long, I figure, and he may drift clean out of the country before the two of them meet…but he’s just stubborn enough to stick around.”

  “Who is he?”

  Mahler shrugged. “Wildy hired him for this job. He don’t talk none about himself…does his share and a mite more, I’d say, and minds his own affairs. He goes his own way, and the way I’d see it he just don’t give a damn—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

  From the window, as she washed dishes, Evie watched Conagher tightening his cinch. He seemed a strange, lonely man and her heart went out to him, although he seemed not to have noticed her. She was used to that. Men never had noticed her very much, and now that she was no longer a young girl they noticed her even less. She was not even sure that Jacob had noticed her, or that he gave much thought to what she cared about or what she dreamed. He had been looking for a steady woman who would care for his children and help him build a home in the western lands. There was no romance about Jacob Teale.

  Yet what right had she to object to the way he was? She had been frightened before they met; her money was almost gone and she had no relatives. There was no place for her to go. Jacob was seeking help and she was seeking shelter, and both found what they wanted.

  Now she had the two children and she did not shrink from the task of raising them; she had grown to love them both. But she was a woman, with a woman’s love to give, and she needed someone reaching out for it. There was an emptiness within her, a yearning that must be fulfilled, a love that needed to be given.

  She went to the door when the riders rode away, driving their small herd to the other stations to the westward. They stood there, she and Ruthie, watching them until even the dust was gone.

  Laban had already gone back to his work. He was removing the pine and cedar boughs from the lean-to and relaying them.

  “It will be more waterproof if I lay the bottom rows first and let the next row overlap,” he explained. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I started it.”

  They were alone again, and the silence had come.

  Chapter 3

  *

  CONN CONAGHER TIED his bandana over his mouth to keep out the dust of the drag. Once he turned to glance back toward the cabin, but it was already obscured by the dust behind the horses.

  Hell of a thing, he said to himself, leavin’ a woman and two kids out there alone. But even as he said it he knew that many a man had no choice. You took your chances in this country; some of them paid off and some did not.

  He gave no thought to Kiowa Staples. The man had the name of a gunfighter, and he had killed a couple of men—one of them up at Tin-Cup, in Colorado, the other at Mobeete, in Texas. Conn Conagher had seen a good many who fancied themselves with guns, and had helped to bury at least one. They came and they went.

  He rubbed the itchy stubble on his jaws and squinted through the dust. He had been figuring on drifting to Tucson, or maybe out to California. He had ridden for a couple of California outfits, and it beat fighting northers in Texas or New Mexico.

  He wasn’t getting any younger, and it was time he found himself a place to light. Twenty-two years now he’d spent on the hurricane deck of a bronc, and it was time he found himself a chair on the porch somewhere, or spent a winter at one of those fancy Colorado hotels.

  Then he snorted with disgust. What was he thinking of? He couldn’t even afford a new pair of boots. He was a thirty-dollar cowhand, and that was all he was likely to be.

  They pushed the horses at a good pace, and although the sun was close to setting they kept on. The next station was not many miles off, and if they rode on in it would be to a warm fire and ready-made grub.

  Kris Mahler dropped back to talk to Conagher. “What do you think? Shall we go on in?”

  “Gettin’ paid for the job, ain’t we? Why waste time? We can make it short of midnight, and these mustangs won’t suffer none. Drive ’em on in an’ tomorrow they’ll be fit as fiddles.”

  There were two men at Red Rock, but there was no evidence of it when the herd rounded into the station. McGivern rode over to the corral and opened the gate for the horses, who smelled the water in
the trough and pushed in, eager to reach it.

  Only when Mahler got down at the door did it open cautiously.

  “Who’s there?” came the question.

  Conn Conagher yelled his answer. “It’s an apostle with an epistle for you! Open up, you sod-busters and let a man in!”

  The door creaked on its hinges and they saw the white undershirt of a man in his pants, holding a rifle. “Put your horses up, an’ come on in. I’ll set the coffee on the fire.”

  After turning his horse into the corral Conn followed the others in. He was tired and cold.

  He nursed the cup of coffee in his stiff fingers. If he stayed in this country he’d have to rustle himself a sheepskin or buffalo coat, and he did not want to leave with Kiowa making war talk…he would like to see him first. Likely it was all talk, but you never knew.

  Between cups, while waiting for the beans and cornpone, he pulled off his boots. There was another hole in his socks. Reminded him of the cowpuncher who went to wash his feet one spring and found two pairs of socks he didn’t know he had.

  Conn picked up his cup again, and sipped the coffee while staring into the fire. There was a world of comfort in a fire, and he’d looked into a sight of them, round and about.

  The station agent was a man of fifty or more, the hostler older, yet they’d found a place to light. The older you got the tougher it got. You felt the cold more, and you didn’t take to sleeping out on the ground so much. A man that old should have himself a home, a place to hang his hat while he waited for the sunset.

  The waiting would not be bad if it was on a man’s own place, where he could watch his own cattle graze and could live in some kind of peace. Conn turned his foot sideways. The heels of his boots were run down and the soles were growing thin. Lucky he was a rider and not a walker or they’d last no time at all.

  He’d never had a home that you could call a home. His ma had died when he was four, and his pa had gone off to help build railroads and had never come back. His aunt and uncle had taken him in, but he’d worked for it. Lord above, how he had worked! His aunt always threw it up to him how his pa had never come back…well, a lot of men went west who never came back, and it wasn’t their fault either.