Passin' Through (1985)

by L'amour, Louis

  Mrs. Hollyrood was at the table when I knocked on the door. She looked mighty pleasant settin’ there, her hair all done just so. She always looked as if she’d stepped out of a bandbox, neat as a pin and comfortable as a cat.

  “Mr. Passin’! How nice! Won’t you come in and sit down? Will you have some coffee?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I surely would.”

  “You’ve been riding?”

  “Scoutin’ the country, sort of. You got any idea how much stock you’ve got, ma’am?”

  “There is an account book. Mr. Phillips said I’d find it all there. I’ll get it if you wish.”

  “Tomorrow.” Seated at the table, I looked around. Womenfolks had a way of makin’ things nice. Me, I’d lived in bunkhouses or just out in the country so long this here seemed like sheer luxury. It was easy to see how a man could get himself married -

  Shocked, I gulped coffee and burned myself. A man could get himself into trouble with thoughts like that.

  “Mr. Passin’? I wonder if you would consider working for me?”

  Well, I looked at her. I’d never seen a more pleasant-lookin’ woman. “No, ma’am,” I said, “I wouldn’t.”

  Chapter Five

  She was expectin’ a different sort of answer, and maybe my reply was kind of abrupt, so I said, “I had my fill of workin’ for folks. Enjoyed it now and again, but Fve a notion to just wander off in wild country and live best as I can.”

  “That could be a lonely life.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I been lonely most of what’s behind me, so Fm used to it.” I paused a moment. “Fll stay on here an’ sort of get things fixed up an’ straightened out, an’ I don’t want money. I cleaned up a pocket out yonder that left me with a mite to go on.”

  The coffee wasn’t quite so hot when I tried it again. “This place needs some flxin’ an’ it goes against my nature to see a fine place get run down. Besides” - I smiled at her - “a little home cookin’ goes mighty good. I never was much hand in a kitchen, an’ when on the trail I just eat along the way. Jerky and the like of what I can find whilst travelin’. Sometimes I go days without a proper meal.”

  “Do you have a trade?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice. I punched cows here an’ there, drove a freight wagon, guided hunters goin’ into the mountains after bear an’ such, an’ I’ve trapped a mite, and was marshal of a minin’ town over in Nevada, rode shotgun on a stage. I do whatever will get the coon, ma’am.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No, ma’am. Womenfolks don’t cotton to me too much. I’m a rough man with rough ways. Anyway, womenfolks have to find a man with roots, a man who belongs somewhere or to something. She’s got to take into account she may have a child and she’s got to have a roof over her head and a place to raise him. A woman’s generally lookin’ for a man with cattle on the hills or goods on the shelf, and well she should be. I’m a driftin’ man, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “Just passin’ through?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s mostly what I been doin’ since I was knee-high to a short frog. I just want to be let alone.” I paused, then looked up at her. “That gent I killed back yonder? He was pressin’ for trouble. He felt himself a big man an’ couldn’t see how short was the shadow he cast. All I wanted was one drink, a meal, an’ a chance to sleep under a roof again.”

  “You felt no remorse?”

  “No, ma’am, he got what he wanted to give me. When a man goes huntin’ trouble, or stealin’ other folks’ property, he’s got to realize there’s some won’t stand for it. He depends on a threat to your life to take what’s yours, whether it’s your property or just your peace of mind.

  “Ridin’ alone, a man gets time to think. This here civilization we got is a mighty flimsy thing. There’s laws, of course, but there’s also an unspoken agreement among folks to abide by the rights of others. Anybody can make a mistake, but if he continues makin’ that mistake he’s shown himself unwilling to abide by the customs of others and so has no place in civilization.

  “There was a time when ever’body was robbin’ an’ raidin’ like them Vikings, but times changed and some folks never have realized it. They are mostly cases of what the Earl called arrested development.”

  “The ‘Earl’?”

  “He was an Englishman who hired me for a guide. He wanted to hunt but mostly he wanted to see the country. He killed a grizzly, some mountain goats, and other game. In camp he spent most of his time with books, readin’, takin’ down notes. I think he figured on writin’ a book or some such thing. We used to talk around the campfire of an evenin’.

  “That man I killed? If I hadn’t stopped him then he’d probably have killed a half-dozen before somebody bedded him down on Boot Hill. He took me for some driftin’ cowpuncher, but that’s the trouble. When you take a hand in the gun game, you never know what the other man’s holdin’.”

  We talked on, of the ranch, of her shows, of the home she always wished for, but she did not talk of Matty, whom I was curious about. Not that I had any business bein’ curious.

  The shadows came from the trees and crept into the folds of the hills. Matty came down from her room upstairs and commenced getting supper on. It was mighty lazylike an’ warm and I surely liked it, although it made me nervous, too, because just when a man gets settled down to comfort is when he forgets to expect trouble. Getting up, I went out the side door, which was in the shadows and had no light inside. Walking alongside the house, I stood listening into the night. It was cool as it always is of a night in the mountains or desert.

  It was almighty quiet, and the stars were like distant campfires on the plain of night. The road lay white and empty and I could hear the horses down at the corral, but no other sound. Nevertheless, I didn’t like it. That Lew struck me as a mean, vicious man and not one to stand by and lose something he thought he should have.

  Nor was I sure those who had tried to hang me had given up. That town was a good distance back along the trail, but some of them ranched down this way and might be around anywhere. I’d know some of them by sight, but not all. It made me wonder about my goods back there. Had my pack been found? And what of my horses? They weren’t so much but that was all I had.

  Coming down here I’d traveled fast, most of the way. Going back it would take twice as long, maybe more.

  The trees were black against the hillside. I looked along the road again. This was a much-traveled road and the house had once been a stage station. Anybody might be riding by, and I couldn’t get jumpy at every sound.

  When I came in and closed the door Matty glanced my way. “I was about to call you. Supper’s ready.”

  She glanced at my gun. “Do you always wear that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My pa went to the fields one day. He was plowin’ in the north forty, figurin’ to put in a crop of corn. He’d worn a gun a good bit but figured it would be in the way and he left it hangin’ on a nail inside the door.

  “That was nearin’ the end of the War, and some guerrillas come by wanted Pa’s horses, so they shot him down and took our horses.”

  “Mightn’t they have killed him anyway?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Pa wasn’t all that good with a gun. They might have, but they might not have even tried, seein’ him armed. They might have just ridden on an’ stole horses they could take without trouble.

  “Even if they’d taken his, he could’ve made a fight. Why should he turn belly up an’ scared just because some tinhorn thief wants what he has? If a man goes down fightin’, that’s one thing; if he’s killed without a chance, that’s somethin’ else.”

  “You were left alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Neighbor folks, they come over an’ helped bury Pa. They wished for me to come live with them but they had all they could do to feed the ones they had, so I stayed on the place.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, ma’am. I had Pa’s Remington, some chickens, an’ we had pigs runnin’ in the woods. We had some ham
s and bacon sides in the smokehouse, and I stayed on, fixin’ for myself. I swapped Pa’s plow for a horse and the use of a harrow. We had seed corn so I planted that field my own self, just as I’d been helpin’ Pa.

  “The War ended an’ folks began comin’ home, and one day I was down to town and I saw a big feller in a checkered shirt. He’d been one of the guerrillas who killed Pa. He come into the store whilst I was there, and there were other folks around, so I spoke up, right to his face.

  “I kep’ my voice low but loud enough so’s folks could hear and I said, ‘You’re the man murdered my pa.’

  “Well, ma’am, that store got almighty still. He stared at me, tryin’ to scare me. I was only ten years old but I didn’t scare much.

  ” ‘You’re crazy, boy. I’ve never been in this country before.’ He was wearin’ a gun and most folks in the store were not.

  ” ‘I’m not crazy,’ I said, ‘an’ that horse you rode into town was Pa’s. Now he’s mine.’

  “Ever’body was starin’ at him an’ he didn’t like it. He stared hard at me but I stared right back. ‘Pa was plowin’,’ I said, ‘you rode up an’ shot him down. Him unarmed an’ helpless, then you taken his horses. You’re a thief, mister, a damn thief an’ a murderer.’

  ” ‘If you was a man you wouldn’t say that. As it is I’ve a good mind to -‘

  ” ‘I wouldn’t think of it, was I you,’ the storekeeper was speakin’. ‘The boy’s right. I remember that horse.’

  ” ‘So do I,’ another said. ‘Mister, you better leave town whilst you’re able. An’ leave afoot. If you try to ride that horse you’ll never make it.’

  “Well, ma’am, he looked around. There was five or six people in the store, womenfolks as well as men, and he couldn’t kill ‘em all, and there were folks in the street.

  ” ‘You’re wrong,’ he says, ‘the boy’s lyin’.’

  “He put his hand on the door and backed out, but as he went out the door he said, ‘I’ll be seein’ you!’

  “The town had no marshal. The sheriff was forty miles away at the county seat an’ there wasn’t much anybody could do, but that man in the checkered shirt didn’t know that. He left town an’ he left my horse behind.

  “Folks walked out on the boardwalk in front of the store and they called out to men across the street, and that feller, he just left out of there. He stole a horse on the edge of town and was gone.”

  “You never saw him again?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was sixteen when I saw him next. He was cuttin’ a wide swath out west, makin’ like a big, bad man. I was man grown an’ wearin’ a gun, and it was in the Territory. He was havin’ a drink in a jug saloon, one of them where when you asked for a drink they poured it from a jug settin’ under the counter.

  “He was makin’ himself big in front of folks, some of them Indians who lived there, some driftin’ riders, an’ what all.

  ” ‘You got a big mouth/ I said.

  “He turned to look at me, peerin’ at me from under heavy eyebrows. ‘Ain’t I seen you before?’

  ” ‘Twice,’ I told him, ‘once when you murdered my pa, and him unarmed and workin’ in the field, an’ another time when I was ten years old an’ made you give up the horse you stole off my pa.’

  “His face turned red and he began to sweat. All those brags he’d been makin’ were starin’ him in the face and those tough Territory boys were lookin’ to see what he’d do.

  ” ‘You ain’t ten now,’ he threatened.

  ” ‘That’s right. I’m man grown an’ wearin’ a gun, so you’ve got it to do.’

  “Well, the sweat was standin’ out on his forehead, and if ever I saw yellow in a man it was showin’ up in him, but all I could think of was Pa, workin’ hard to support a family on a two-by-twice farm, an’ this man comin’ along and murderin’ him for his horse. Pa, who never did harm to any man.

  “He looked around like he wanted a way out, but there wasn’t any. Folks had drawed back, leaving him standin’ alone.

  “Sweat was drippin’ off his nose and chin although it wasn’t warm in there. All the nerve had gone out of him, and suddenly I didn’t want to kill him no more. He was dead already, inside.

  “This was our fight an’ nobody was puttin’ their two cents in. It was like that in the Territory, them days. You did what you had to do an’ folks left it to you. You went to robbin’ an’ killin’ outside of the Territory and those marshals would surely come huntin’ you, but down there nobody cared very much.

  ” ‘If there’s a hell,’ I said, ‘there’s a special place waitin’ for you.’

  “He just stood there, lookin’ suddenly gaunt an’ empty, so I started for the door. It had not been a pretty sight and I wanted to get out of there. I’d taken two steps before I heard somebody gasp, an’ I swear I heard his gun clearin’ leather. Turning, I saw his gun comin’ level and I shot him in the brisket. His gun went off, the bullet strikin’ over the door, but he was cold dead an’ fallin’.”

  Matty put the supper on, and called Mrs. Hollyrood. She turned and looked straight at me in a way she had. “Why did you tell me that story?”

  “I don’t know. Never told anybody before. Maybe I wanted you to see I’m not a very nice man.”

  “Sit down,” she said, “don’t wait for her. She will be along.”

  Outside I could hear the clop-clop of horses’ hoofs and the creak of a buckboard, but whoever it was did not stop, although it was a long way to Animas City.

  Mrs. Hollyrood came out and the two of them talked about the place and about a copy of Scribner’s and the ads in it.

  There was a guitar standin’ in the corner and I was wishful for music but said nothing. It was time I was gettin’ on down the road, and as soon as I’d branded some stock and fixed things up, I’d start. I did want my outfit, though, wanted it the worst way.

  “Mr. Phillips,” Mrs. Hollyrood said, “had many copies of magazines. If you wish anything to read -”

  “I’m not much of a reader,” I said, ashamed. “I never had much schoolin’.”

  “But you can read, can’t you?”

  “A mite, ma’am.” I pushed back from the table. “I’m gettin’ up early. I better hit the hay.”

  I started for the door, then thought of what I was doing and went to the side door which opened on darkness and in darkness. I stepped outside. Standin’ there I swore softly, bitterly.

  Out in the desert or mountains I was all right, but I surely wasn’t much account with folks. To tell the truth, I wasn’t much of a hand when it come to readin’. Given time I could sort of figure out the words, but I never read in front of folks where they could see me workin’ at it.

  Seemed like much as I was wishful of readin’ I was mostly out on the range or somewhere and books weren’t handy. Tracks on a trail were easy for me, and I could read brands, but a newspaper or a book was troublesome.

  These were good women, real nice, and I wanted to help, but then I’d best move along down the road. Meanwhile I’d better fight shy of them as much as could be. The mud of human affection could get pretty deep around here and I wasn’t of a mind to get myself stuck in it.

  The road was white through the blackness. Waiting, I listened. No sound, and then -

  Something stirred down there, something moved against the white, then vanished. My hand was close to my gun and I slipped the thong from the hammer.

  Where I stood was blackness, but to get to the bunkhouse in the granary I had to cross that white road, and I had a hunch somebody was waitin’, just down the trail.

  They were stirring about inside, then the light in the kitchen was blown out.

  A boot grated on gravel -

  Leaning my shoulder against the corner of the house, I put my right hand on my gun. It was a poor light for shootin’ but I’d done it before.

  Chapter Six

  There was vague light from the bedroom windows upstairs, for the windows were curtained. A soft wind moved a dried leaf
across the gravel of the road, and the aspen leaves brushed their pale palms. Somebody or something was out there in the night, something as watchful as I, something waiting.

  Waiting for me to move? Waiting to kill me? Or some passing traveler wondering if he should ask for shelter from the already darkened house?

  Did he know that only women lived here? Or did he know about me? Was he looking for me?

  The wind stirred again, rustling the leaves, and I waited. No sign of a horse. Was he afoot or did he leave his horse back up the road? Or did he hope to steal a horse here?

  An Indian? This was Ute country and folks were saying the Utes were mighty unhappy about a lot of things. I knew the Utes. They were tough people, good fighting men and not about to be pushed around by anyone. If they went on the warpath it would mean a lot of good people were going to get hurt.

  Yonder in the granary I had a good bed waiting, and I was tired, ready to turn in. My eyes searched the shadows. What I had heard sounded like a boot on gravel, and that meant whoever was out there was not likely to be an Indian.

  What this place needed was a good dog, a watchdog who would make himself known. There should be one on the place before I left. A dog right now would know that man was out there and would tell us when people arrived or left.

  As for myself I understood my position. If somehow I was shot, nobody would pay much attention. I was a drifter whom nobody knew and about whom nobody cared. My death would be a matter of conversation for a few hours or days depending on what else there was to talk about.

  Things had quieted down inside with all the lights out and I believed the womenfolks had gone to bed. My eyes were accustomed to the darkness now and I could make things out pretty good.

  Whoever was out there could not know I was outside. He might have seen me go in, he might have seen me through the windows, although I doubted it. I believed he arrived just as I was coming out and when I first heard him. I did not know that, however. Yet, the chances were he believed all here were inside and in bed. Leaning against the corner of the house, I waited while the slow minutes passed. Suddenly the roan blew loudly, and I could see his head was up and he was listening, watching something.