Passin' Through (1985)

by L'amour, Louis

How long had I been in this hole? An hour? Two hours? I could not get at my watch to see. Again I waited. He might be lying close by, hoping I would appear from whatever hiding place I’d chosen.

  My lids were heavy, and I was tired. All I wanted was to get out of this hole and sleep. If I could only get down to the ranch!

  Somehow, some way, I fell asleep, and when I awakened it was a long time later. It was time to get out of this hole, to get away from here. I needed care for my wound, I needed water, I needed food, and I needed decent rest. I started to move, then stopped.

  A movement, right close by. Only the slightest move in the brush. A hacking sound, then a voice, low, conversational. That was Pan Beacham, all right. Talking to himself.

  “Lucky I brought this Bowie. Handy to have.” More hacking and then something dropped over the hole where I crouched. One of the interstices between branches of my lid was suddenly blocked out. Somebody had dropped a pile of brush right over my head!

  “A fire,” his voice said, “that’s what I need. A fire. Throw some light on the subject. Nothin’ better than a good fire to bring things out into the open.”

  Fire! He was building a fire! Somehow, some way he had figured it out! He knew where I was hiding. My muscles gathered for a lunge, then slowly relaxed. The fire would burn up, and only ashes might drop on me. Still -

  A thought came, bringing a sharp arrow of hope. He had to light the fire. If he lit a piece of brush and threw it on the pile, I was done for, but suppose he struck a match and leaned close to touch it to the fuel?

  Most men would do that. I listened for the sound of his boots, heard them crush leaves close by. He was squatting. I could hear his breathing. He struck a match and I glimpsed some of its flame. There was a shadow as he leaned over to light the fire. I shoved the rifle up hard and as it touched his body I pulled the trigger.

  The concussion in that small hole was shocking. I lunged desperately to get out of the hole, away from the fire. I lunged and fell across Beacham, who was trying to rise. He pushed me away, reaching for the Bowie. My hand shot out, grasping at the knife, and our hands gripped.

  Frantic to escape the growing fire, I swung a fist against his chin. The effort sent a stab of pain through me, but I struggled to rise. He had the Bowie, but as I reached one knee I drove the muzzle of the rifle up under his chin and he staggered back. There was blood all over him and his eyes were wild.

  He fell backward and I lost balance and fell, too. Grabbing a handful of flaming brush, I thrust it into his face, but he knocked it away and scrambled to his feet.

  “Damn you! You got me! Damn -!” He was clawing for a pistol.

  Kicking out, my boot caught him on the knee and he fell into the scattered fire. Rolling over, I got the loop off my pistol and drew. As he came up again I put three bullets into him.

  He swore again, slowly, viciously. I pulled my leg away from the fire, resting on my left elbow, the gun in my right hand.

  “Damn you all to hell!” he said, and died.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For a moment I just stayed where I was and then I got up. My wounds were bleeding. I could feel blood running down my leg. Standing wide-legged, braced against another fall, I emptied the three spent shells from my pistol and reloaded. Then I holstered the gun and slipped the thong back in place.

  The fire he had tried to light had been scattered and was burning down in the hole and also in a few scattered leaves. One by one I put them out, looking around for any I might have missed.

  Then I recovered my rifle. My brain was foggy and my eyes seemed hard to focus. When I looked at something it needed a moment for what I saw to register.

  Through it all there was a struggling thread of sanity. I was hurt, badly hurt, and I needed care, rest and care. To get back down to my horses would be a struggle, but then I must ride for some distance around to get to the ranch. It would be better to keep going along the ridge and find a trail right to the ranch. Once there, Matty and Mrs. Hollyrood would care for me.

  Vaguely there was the thought that our shooting might have attracted attention, but I did not know how far the sound would carry nor if anyone was within hearing distance. Going straight down the cliff was out of the question. It was too steep in the first place and I’d walked through tangles like that before and knew I’d never make it.

  Further along> as I remembered from having studied the ridge, there was more open country. There were brush and trees but not the tangle there was close by. Weak though I was, I simply had to try. If I could only get to the ranch!

  Carrying my rifle, I walked steadily east along the ridge, catching an occasional glimpse of the ranch through the trees. Mostly I stared straight ahead, trying to walk straight, trying to keep going. Once, when a flat rock was beside the dim trail, I sat down.

  My wounds seemed to have stopped bleeding but my shirt was stuck to my back with blood and my hair was matted with it. Somehow I’d kept my hat.

  Now I could see the ranch buildings, the big barn, the corrals, and the granary. At the corral across from the house there was a rig and a team of horses. At the distance I could make out no details except I could see the sun on the buggy. It looked to be all slick and varnished like that outfit I’d seen in Parrott City.

  A trail slanted down the ridge through the ponderosa and I started down but hadn’t gone far when I had to stop. I sat down on a fallen log, feeling all weak and faint. I’d lost blood, and now the excitement of my fight for life was wearing off. I was weak as a rabbit.

  There was shade under the pines and I sat down and kind of leaned back against the trunk of a tree. My eyes closed and I guess I fell asleep. How long I was there I don’t know, maybe only a few minutes, maybe an hour. When I opened my eyes again I was all stiff and sore and it was hard to move. For a moment I just sat there looking across at all the magnificence of the La Platas rearing up beyond the ranch. I could see smoke rising from a chimney in Parrott City, and from a mine further east. I just sat there, too weak to rise, but feeling the urge to move on. Down below and not far from the foot of the ridge I could see water in a pool. Not far from it, cattle grazed. Then coming in from the east, and keeping down behind the trees and riding where there was low ground, I saw three horsemen.

  For several minutes, I watched them without it making any impression. They were just part of the scenery along with the mountains, the trees, and the brush, then slowly realization began to get through to me.

  One of those riders, judging by the horse he rode, must be Lew Paine!

  My thoughts came into focus and I sat up, staring at them. They were riding through the trees, keeping out of sight of the ranch. Now they drew up and one of them was standing in his stirrups, looking toward the ranch. They were a good half-mile away but I was several hundred feet higher and could see them clearly. Now they were apparently talking.

  Maybe whatever they planned did not include the presence of that buggy.

  Several meadows started narrow between folds of the hills but widened out as they drew nearer the ranch house. The trail I was on apparently ended in or skirted one of those meadows. The riders, if they kept on as going, would emerge in another meadow just over a knoll from the one I was headed for.

  The last thing I wanted right now was trouble. I’d had my fill. I was hurt and mighty weak from the blood I’d lost, needing water and something to eat, but mostly just rest and to get my wounds cleaned and treated.

  Who set Pan Beacham on me I had no idea, but for a man who wanted no trouble I was having aplenty. Now if those riders down below found me they’d make short work of me. I was in no shape for a stand-up fight of any kind. One thing about my wounds. In this high-up country the early mountain men had begun to notice that wounds healed more rapidly than in the lowlands where there were lots of people. Probably there was less corruption in the air. That thought was small comfort.

  Those men down below seemed to be studying what they’d do. Maybe that buggy posed a problem. Likely they we
re figuring they’d find nobody to home but those womenfolks. They’d been scouting around and they might know I’d ridden away over west and they might even know about Beacham hunting me. So they’d be sure they had a clear field for whatever they had in mind. Now that buggy was creating a problem.

  What would they do? Most likely they’d find someplace from which to watch and just wait. So if I was careful and could keep from sight until right at the ranch house I’d be able to make it.

  Well, I got up. It was something of a struggle but I had the rifle to help me and I made my feet and turned down trail. Stiff and sore as I was, I couldn’t move fast. I was lucky to even be moving. The sky was still overcast, and there was a hint of rain. Slowly, I started down the path, keeping under cover of the trees so if anybody looked my way I’d not be seen.

  My shirt was stuck to my back with dried blood but I daren’t work it loose because it might start bleeding again. That time I got no more than thirty or forty steps before I just had to stop. There was no place to sit but the ground and I knew I’d never be able to get up again, so I just leaned against the bank on the high side of the trail.

  Through the trees I could make out that buggy. It looked like the same outfit I’d seen driven into Parrott City as I was leaving, the one driven by the fellow whom I had suspected of being Janet’s friend. But what would he be doing out here? Unless he had driven her out for a conference.

  The riders down below were now out of my sight. My trail switched and angled away from them. After a rest, I heaved myself erect, tottered a little, then went on, a step at a time. Once or twice I nearly faded out, and I had a hunch I just wasn’t going to make it. Not this time, anyway.

  If those riders found me in this shape I’d be easy pickings. I doubted I had strength more than to lift my rifle. God forbid they should ride up this trail.

  Somebody had worked on this trail in times past. It was wide enough for one rider or walker, and part of it was cut into the mountainside, leaving a steep bank on one side, a thick stand of ponderosa on the other. Occasionally there were thin spots where I could see through to the ranch buildings. There seemed to be no activity outside.

  My knees were weak and I felt woozy. I walked on, seeing a fallen tree ahead of me. When I got there I rewarded myself with the promise that I’d sit down. Twice I simply stopped, gathering my strength to go on, and when I made it I sank to a seat with a gasp. Dizzy, I had a hard time making my eyes focus. My face felt hot and my mouth dry. Desperately, I wished for a drink but there was no water. If I could just make the house I’d be safe.

  Head hanging, I sat on the dead tree only dimly aware of time or place. My eyes closed and the moments drifted slowly by. A cool wind came off the La Platas where now clouds gathered, and I hunched my shoulders, only barely conscious. Vaguely an old tune from a music hall ran through my mind, and I chuckled at some forgotten memory. When at last I tried to rise I fell, to my knees first, then to my face on the trail, my face among the fallen leaves.

  A long time later a cool wind blew and I shivered, and opened my eyes. For a time I simply lay there, content to be lying, content to be resting. After a little while I rolled to my face and got my knees under me and sat up. I must move. I must get off this trail. I must -

  Using the rifle as a crutch again I struggled to my feet and tottered down the trail. It had been hours since I’d been shot, hours since I’d started down the trail.

  Where were the riders? Holed up, watching for her visitor to go so they might attack the place?

  My back was stiff and I moved carefully so as not to begin bleeding again. When I had made a hundred steps, I found a place to sit down and rest, listening for the riders who must be within two hundred yards of me and probably much less. Looking ahead, I could see the trail I was on sort of disappeared in rank undergrowth. The area had been cut over at some time and brush had grown up, yet there was a sort of trail left by deer. After a few minutes I struggled to my feet and started on. Soon I was in thick brush and scrub oak where I could see no more than a few feet. Nor could I see the house or other buildings as they were now hidden from view.

  Emerging from the brush on the upper end of a meadow, I kept close to the wall of brush and scrub oak that covered the low hill that lay between me and the riders. If I guessed correctly they were either hidden somewhere opposite me, and probably not over a hundred yards away, or they might be skirting the same low hill in the meadow east of it.

  Twice I stumbled and fell. Each time it was harder to rise. Yet in the moments when I could think clearly I did not believe I was seriously wounded. There had been shock, of course, and I’d lost blood, a lot of blood. The one bullet seemed to have caused three wounds, hitting me as it did when I was lying down.

  Soon it would be night. If only I could reach the house! Reach it without coming under the guns of Lew Paine and his companions.

  When I next came in sight of the buildings I was behind a thin screen of low trees on a bluff looking right down into the ranch yard.

  All was quiet. The buckskin I had ridden was in the corral, not fifty yards away. The spanking-new buggy was still there, the team tied to the corral railing.

  What was going on down there? Uneasily, I studied the layout. That buggy had been here for hours, and if that was Janet Le Caudy’s friend he was spending a lot of time with Mrs. Hollyrood and Matty. Perhaps he had known them before? Or it might be somebody else?

  I lay quiet. The ranch buildings might be within view of Lew Paine and his men, certainly they were close by, and I did not want to give away my presence or the fact that I was hurt.

  In an hour or less it would be dark. Pillowing my head on my arm, I rested, waiting.

  Somehow, I fell asleep, and when I awakened the buggy was gone and night had fallen. Very carefully, I sat up, feeling a stab of pain from my back. My body was stiff and the night had chilled me.

  Awareness came slowly. I was badly hurt. I was in trouble. My enemies might be close by.

  There were lights in the house. A shadow passed the window curtain. Using the rifle to help, I got to my feet. Listening, I heard no slightest sound, and with care I started around to come down off the bluff. To do that I must go either east or west, but to the east was where Lew Paine had been so I chose west. Carefully, trying to make no sound, taking only a step at a time, I went westward, came down off the slope, and keeping close to the low bluff so as to throw no shadow, I started toward the small bridge that crossed the creek.

  The granary was dark. For a few minutes I waited beside some willows, then crossed to the granary. Again I paused to listen. My head ached with a slow, heavy throbbing that made it hard to concentrate. All I could think of was that bed and washing some of the blood from my body and getting a cold drink of water. I needed help, and I needed some care. Maybe I could get it here.

  Somewhere I heard movement, but listening intently, I heard nothing more. Crossing the road, I lifted the latch and stepped inside, closing the door after me. Then pausing, I listened for any sound that might imply somebody was there. Hearing nothing, I stepped to the bed. It was as I had left it. Remembering Lew Paine, I struck no light, but went back to the door and drew the latch string inside so the door could not be opened from the outside.

  Slowly my eyes became accustomed to the inner darkness. Before leaving, knowing I’d be gone for a while, I’d brought the washbasin inside, and there was a bucket of water. First off, I drank, then drank again. Then I washed my face and using a piece of an old towel I soaked some of the dried blood out of my hair.

  When I’d cleaned up a mite I just couldn’t make it any further. I stretched out on the bed and slept, my pistol beside me, my rifle within reach. Before I stretched out I held my watch to the window and could just make out the time. It was only just past nine o’clock.

  A low rapping awakened me. A moment there I thought I was dreaming, then a whisper. Swinging my feet to the floor, I tiptoed over. Again there was that subdued rapping. “Who’s there?�
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  My gun was in my hand and I stood to one side of the door.

  “It’s me! Matty! Let me in!” The words were whispered, scarcely loud enough for me to hear.

  Gun still in hand, I opened the door. She glided in like a ghost. “I saw you come. I’ve been watching for you! Where is your horse?”

  “Up on the mountain. Man tried to kill me.”

  “I know! Mr. Passin’, you’ve got to leave! You’ve got to get away! Don’t ask me why, just go!”

  “Ma’am, I’m bad hurt. Well, maybe not so bad, but I lost blood. I need rest, ma’am, need it bad. I’m all in.”

  “You must go! They will kill you! Don’t ask questions! Just go!”

  “Told you, ma’am. I need rest. I couldn’t make it to nowheres. Besides, Lew Paine an’ them, they’re outside. I mean they’re close by! I figure they’ll pull somethin’ off. I mean they’ll attack the place before daybreak. You got to be ready.”

  “Please! You’ve got to go!”

  “I better see the missus first. I got to warn her.”

  “Please, Passin’, please go! Don’t try to see her! Don’t even think of her!”

  “Well, it ain’t hardly polite, you know. She promised to fix me a dinner. I was sort of lookin’ forward to it, hungry as I am.

  “Don’t even think of it. Not unless you want that dinner to be your last. Just get out of here before they know you’re here!”

  ” ‘They’?”

  “Don’t ask questions! Go! I must get back before they know I’m gone or they will kill me, too!”

  “Kill you? Who?”

  She was almost in tears. “Please! Just go! Out there you have a chance. Here you’ve none at all! Please go, quickly!”

  “Matty?” It was a call from the steps of the house. It was Mrs. Hollyrood.

  “Oh, my God!” It was almost a prayer. “Please go! They think you found something, some papers or something in that drawer. And please! If they find you and invite you in, don’t eat or drink anything!”

  With that, she was gone, and a moment later I heard her saying, “It was too warm inside. I had to get out in the air.” The door closed behind them and I got up and smoothed out the bed, drawing the blanket tight again the way McCarron or whatever his name was had left it.