Mistakes Can Kill You

by Louis L'Amour

  Suddenly the mountain fell away before him, and below in a long finger of grass he saw the silver line of a creek, and nestled against a shoulder of the mountain he discerned roofs among the trees. Pausing, Jim rolled a smoke and studied the lie of the land. Northward, for all of ten miles, there was good range. Dry, but not so bad as over the mountain, and in the spring and early summer it would be good grazing land. He had looked at too much range not to detect, from the colors of the valley before him, some of the varieties of grass and brush. Northwest the range stretched away through a wide gap in the mountains, and he seemed to distinguish a deeper green in the distance.

  Old Dave Butler had chosen well, and his XY had, Gatlin could see as he rode nearer, been well handled. Tanks had been built to catch some of the overflow from the mountains and to prevent the washing of valuable range. The old man, and evidently Jim Walker, had worked hard to build this ranch into something. Even while wanting money for his relatives in the east, Butler had tried to insure that the work would be continued after his death. Walker would continue it, and so would Lisa Cochrane.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  Kill-Branded Pardner

  All morning he rode, and well into the afternoon, studying the range but avoiding the buildings. Once, glancing back, he saw a group of horsemen riding swiftly out of the mountains from which he had come and heading for the XY. Reining in, he watched from a vantage point among some huge boulders. Men wouldn’t ride that fast without adequate reason …

  Morosely, he turned and started back along the way he had come, thinking more and more of Lisa. Five thousand was a lot of money, but what he was doing was not dishonest and so far he had played the game straight. Still why think of that? In a few days he’d have the money in his pocket and be headed for Texas. He turned on the brow of the hill and glanced back, carried away despite himself by the beauty of the wide sweep of range.

  Pushing on, he skirted around and came toward the cabin from the town trail. He was riding with his mind far away when the black snorted violently and shied. Jim drew up, staring at the man who lay sprawled in the trail. It was the cowhand Pete Chasin had left on guard there. He’d been shot through the stomach and a horse had been ridden over him.

  Swinging down, a quick check showed the man was dead. Jim grabbed up the reins and sprang into the saddle. Sliding a sixgun from its holster, he pushed forward, riding cautiously. The tracks told him that a party of twelve horsemen had come this way.

  He heard the wind in the trees, the distant cry of an eagle, but nothing more. He rode out into the clearing before the cabin and drew up. Another man had died here. It wasn’t Stabineau nor Hab Johnson, but the other guard, who must have retreated to this point for aid.

  Gun in hand, Gatlin pushed the door open and looked into the cabin. Everything was smashed, yet when he swung down and went in, he found his own gear intact, under the overturned bed. He threw his bed roll on his horse and loaded up his saddlebags. He jacked a shell into the chamber of the Winchester and was about to mount up when he heard a muffled cry.

  Turning, he stared around, then detected a faint stir among the leaves of a mountain mahogany. Warily he walked over and stepped around the bush.

  Pink Stabineau, his face pale, and his shirt dark with blood, lay sprawled on the ground. Curiously there was still a faint touch of humor in his eyes when he looked up at Gatlin. “Got me,” he said finally. “It was that damned Hab. He sold us out … to Wing Cary. The damn’ dirty son!”

  Jim dropped to his knees and gently unbuttoned the man’s shirt. The wound was low down on the left side and although he seemed to have lost much blood, there was a chance. Working swiftly, he built a fire, heated water and bathed and then dressed the wound. From time to time Pink talked, telling him much of what he suspected, that Cary would hunt Chasin down now, and kill him.

  “If they fight,” Jim asked, “who’ll win?”

  Stabineau grinned wryly. “Cary … he’s tough, an’ cold as ice. Pete’s too jumpy. He’s fast, but mark my words, if they face each other he’ll shoot too fast and miss his first shot. Wing won’t miss!

  “But it won’t come to that. Wing’s a cinch player. He’ll chase him down an’ the bunch will gun him to death. Wing’s bloodthirsty.”

  Leaving food and a canteen of water beside the wounded man, and giving him two blankets, Jim Gatlin mounted. His deal was off then. The thought left him with a distinct feeling of relief. He had never liked any part of it, and he found himself without sympathy for Pete Chasin. The man had attempted a double-cross and failed.

  Well, the road was open again now, and there was nothing between him and Texas but the miles. Yet he hesitated, and then turned his horse toward the XY. He rode swiftly, and at sundown was at the ranch. He watched it for a time, and saw several hands working around, yet there seemed little activity. No doubt they were waiting to see what was to happen.

  Suddenly, a sorrel horse started out from the ranch and swung into the trail toward town. Jim Gatlin squinted his eyes against the fading glare of the sun and saw the rider was a woman. That would be Lisa Cochrane. Suddenly he swung the black and, touching spurs to the horse, raced down the mountains to intercept her.

  Until that moment he had been uncertain as to the proper course, but now he knew, yet for all his speed, his eyes were alert and watchful for he realized the risk he ran. Wing Cary would be quick to discover that as long as he was around and alive that there was danger, and even now the rancher might have his men out, scouring the country for him. Certainly, there were plausible reasons enough, for it could be claimed that he had joined with Chasin in a plot to get the ranch by appearing as Jim Walker.

  Lisa’s eyes widened when she saw him. “I thought you’d be gone by now. There’s a posse after you!”

  “You mean some of Cary’s men?” he corrected.

  “I mean a posse. Wing has men on your trail, too, but they lost you somehow. He claims that you were tied up in a plan with Pete Chasin to get the ranch, and that you killed Jim Walker!”

  “That I did?” his eyes searched her face. “You mean that? He actually claims that?”

  She nodded, watching him. “He says that story about your being here was all nonsense, that you actually came on purpose, that you an’ Chasin rigged it that way! You’ll have to admit it looks funny, you arriving right at this time and looking just like Jim.”

  “What if it does?” he demanded impatiently. “I never heard of Jim Walker until you mentioned him to me, and I never heard of the town of Tucker until a few hours before I met you.”

  “You’d best go, then,” she warned, “they’re all over the country. Sheriff Eaton would take you in, but Wing wouldn’t, nor any of his boys. They’ll kill you on sight.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “I can see that.” Nevertheless, he didn’t stir, but continued to roll a cigarette. She sat still, watching him curiously. Finally he looked up. “I’m in a fight,” he admitted,” and not one I asked for. Cary is making this a mighty personal thing, ma’am, an’ I reckon I ain’t even figurin’ on leavin’.” He struck a match. “You got any chance of gettin’ the ranch?”

  “How could I? I have no money!”

  “Supposin’,” he suggested, squinting an eye against the smoke, “you had a pardner—with ten thousand dollars?”

  Lisa shook her head. “Things like that don’t happen,” she said. “They just don’t.”

  “I’ve got ten thousand dollars on me,” Gatlin volunteered, “an’ I’ve been pushed into this whether I like it or not. I say we ride into Tucker now, an’ we see this boss of yours, the lawyer. I figure he could get the deal all set up for us tomorrow. Are you game?”

  “You—you really have that much?” She looked doubtfully at his shabby range clothes. “It’s honest money?”

  “I drove cattle to Montana,” he said. “That was my piece of it. Let’s go.”

  “Not so fast!” The words rapped out sharply. “I’ll take that money, an’ take it now! Woody, get that
girl!”

  For reply Jim slapped the spurs to the black and at the same instant, slapped the sorrel a ringing blow. The horses sprang off together in a dead run! Behind them a rifle shot rang out and Jim felt the bullet clip past his skull. “Keep goin’!” he yelled. “Ride!”

  At a dead run they swung down the trail, and then Jim saw a side trail he had noticed on his left. He jerked his head at the girl and grabbed at her bridle. It was too dark to see the gesture, but she felt the tug and turned the sorrel after him, mounting swiftly up the steep side hill under the trees. Here the soft needles made it impossible for their horses’ hoofs to be heard, and Jim led the way, pushing on under the pines.

  That it would be only a minute or so before Cary discovered his error was certain, but each minute counted. A wall lifted on their right and they rode on, keeping in the intense darkness close under it, but then another wall appeared on their left and they were boxed in. Behind them they heard a yell, distant now, but indication enough their trail had been found. Boulders and slabs of rock loomed before them, but the black horse turned down a slight incline and worked his way around the rocks. From time to time they spoke to each other to keep together, but he kept moving, knowing that Wing Cary would be close behind.

  The canyon walls seemed to be drawing closer and the boulders grew larger and larger. Somewhere Jim heard water running, and the night air was cool and slightly damp on his face. He could smell pines, so knew there were trees about and they had not ridden completely out of them. Yet Jim was becoming worried, for the canyon walls towered above them and obviously there was no break. If this turned out to be a box canyon, they were bottled up. One man could hold this canyon corked with no trouble at all.

  The black began to climb and in a few minutes walked out on a flat of grassy land. The moon was rising but as yet there was no light in this deep canyon.

  Lisa rode up beside him. “Jim,” it was the first time she had ever called him by name, “I’m afraid we’re in for it now. Unless I’m mistaken this is a box canyon. I’ve never been up here, but I’ve heard of it, and there’s no way out.”

  “I was afraid of that.” The black horse stopped as he spoke and he heard water falling ahead. He urged the horse forward but he refused to obey. Jim swung down into the darkness. “Pool,” he said. “We’ll find some place to hole up and wait for daylight.”

  They found a group of boulders and seated themselves among them, stripping the saddles from their horses and picketing them on a small patch of grass behind the boulders. Then for a long time they talked, the casual talk of two people finding out about each other. Jim talked of his early life on the Neuces, of his first trip into Mexico after horses when he was fourteen, and how they were attacked by Apaches. There had been three Indian fights that trip, two south of the border and one north of it.

  He had no idea when sleep took him, but he awakened with a start to find the sky growing gray, and to see Lisa Cochrane sleeping on the grass six feet away. She looked strangely young with her face relaxed and her lips slightly parted. A dark tendril of hair had blown across her cheek. He turned away and walked out to the horses. The grass was thick and rich here.

  He studied their position with care, and found they were on a terrace separated from the end wall of the canyon only by the pool, at least an acre of clear, cold water into which a small fall fell from the cliff above. There were a few trees, and some of the scattered boulders they had encountered the previous night. The canyon on which they had come was a wild jumble of boulders and brush surmounted on either side by cliffs that lifted nearly three hundred feet. While escape might be impossible if Wing Cary attempted, as he surely would, to guard the opening, yet their own position was secure, too, for one man with a rifle might stand off an army from the terrace.

  After he had watered the horses, he built a fire and put water on for coffee. Seeing some trout in the pool, he tried his luck, and from the enthusiasm with which they went for his bait the pool could never have been fished before, or not in a long time. Lisa came from behind the boulders just as the coffee came to a boil. “What is this, a picnic?” she asked brightly.

  He grinned, touching his unshaven jaw. “With this beard?” He studied her a minute. “You’d never guess you’d spent the night on horseback or sleeping at the end of a canyon,” he said. Then his eyes sobered. “Can you handle a rifle? I mean, well enough to stand off Cary’s boys if they tried to come up here?”

  She turned quickly and glanced down the canyon. The nearest boulders to the terrace edge were sixty yards away, and the approach even that close would not be easy. “I think so,” she said. “What are you thinking of?”

  He gestured at the cliff. “I’ve been studyin’ that. With a mite of luck a man might make it up there.”

  Her face paled. “It isn’t worth it. We’re whipped, and we might as well admit it. All we can do now is sit still and wait until the ranch is sold.”

  “No,” he said positively. “I’m goin’ out of here if I have to blast my way out. They’ve made a personal matter out of this, now,” he glanced at her, “I sort of have a feeling you should have that ranch. Lookin’ at it yesterday I just couldn’t imagine it without you. You lived there, didn’t you?”

  “Most of my life. My folks were friends of Uncle Dave’s, and after they were killed I stayed on with him.”

  “Did he leave you anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I … I think he expected me to marry Jim … he always wanted it that way, but we never felt like that about each other, and yet Jim told me after Uncle Dave died that I was to consider the place my home, if he got it.”

  As they ate, he listened to her talk while he studied the cliff. It wasn’t going to be easy, and yet it could be done.

  A shout rang out from the rocks behind them, and they both moved to the boulders, but there was nobody in sight. A voice yelled again that Jim spotted as that of Wing Cary. He shouted a reply, and Wing yelled back, “We’ll let Lisa come out if she wants, an’ you, too, if you come with your hands up!”

  Lisa shook her head, so Gatlin shouted back, “We like it here! Plenty of water, plenty of grub! If you want us you’ll have to come an’ get us!”

  In the silence that followed, Lisa said, “He can’t stay, not if he attends the auction.”

  Jim turned swiftly. “Take the rifle. If they start to come, shoot an’ shoot to kill! I’m going to take a chance!”

  Keeping out of sight behind the worn gray boulders, Gatlin worked his way swiftly along the edge of the pool toward the cliff face. As he felt his way along the rocky edge, he stared down into the water. That pool was deep, from the looks of it. And that was something to remember.

  At the cliff face he stared up. It looked even easier than he thought, and at one time and another he had climbed worse faces. However, once he was well up the face he would be within sight of the watchers below … or would he?

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Hell’s Chimney

  He put a hand up and started, working his way to a four-inch ledge that projected from the face of the rock and slanted sharply upward. There were occasional clumps of brush growing from the rock, and they would offer some security. A rifle shot rang out behind him, then a half dozen more, farther off. Lisa had fired at something and had been answered from down the canyon.

  The ledge was steep, but there were good handholds and he worked his way along it more swiftly than he would have believed possible. His clothing blended well with the rock, and by refraining from any sudden movements there was a chance that he could make it.

  When almost two hundred feet up the face, he paused, resting on a narrow ledge, partly concealed by an outcropping. He looked up, but the wall was sheer. Beyond there was a chimney, but almost too wide for climbing and the walls looked slick as a blue clay sidehill. Yet study the cliff as he would, he could see no other point where he might climb farther. Worse, part of that chimney was exposed to fire from below.

  If they saw
him he was through. He’d be stuck, with no chance of evading the fire. Yet he knew he’d take the chance. Squatting on the ledge, he pulled off his boots, and running a loop of piggin’ string through their loops, he slung them from his neck. Slipping thongs over his guns, he got into the chimney and braced his back against one side, then lifted his feet, first his left, then his right, against the opposite wall.

  Whether Lisa was watching or not, he didn’t know, but almost at that instant she began firing. The chimney was, at this point, all of six feet deep, and wide enough to allow for climbing, but very risky climbing. His palms flat against the slippery wall, he began to inch himself upward, working his stocking feet up the opposite wall. Slowly, every movement a danger, his breath coming slow, his eyes riveted on his feet, he began to work his way higher.

  Sweat poured down his face and smarted in his eyes, and he could feel it trickling down his stomach under his wool shirt. Before he was halfway up his breath was coming in great gasps and his muscles were weary with the strain of opposing their strength against the walls to keep from falling. Then, miraculously, the chimney narrowed a little, and climbing was easier.

  He glanced up. Not over twenty feet to go! His heart bounded and he renewed his effort. A foot slipped, and he felt an agonizing moment when fear throttled him and he seemed about to fall. To fall meant to bound from that ledge and go down, down into that deep green pool at the foot of the cliff, a fall of nearly three hundred feet!

  Something smacked against the wall near him and from below there was a shout. Then Lisa opened fire, desperately, he knew, to give him covering fire. Another shot splashed splinters in his face and he struggled wildly, sweat poured from him, to get up those last few feet. Suddenly the rattle of fire ceased, and then opened up again. He risked a quick glance and saw Lisa Cochrane running out in the open, and as she ran, she halted and fired!