Mistakes Can Kill You

by Louis L'Amour

  Far more than Roundy realized did Mike Bastian know the facts about Ben Curry’s empire of crime. For three years now, Curry had been leading his foster son through all the intricate maze of his planning. There were spies and agents in nearly every town in the Southwest, and small groups of outlaws quartered here and there on ranches who could be called upon for help at a moment’s notice.

  Also, there were ranches where fresh horses could be had, and changes of clothing, and where the horses the band had ridden could be lost. At Toadstool Canyon were less than two hundred of the total number of outlaws, and many of those, while living under Curry’s protection, were not of his band.

  Also, the point Roundy raised had been in Mike’s mind, festering there, an abcess of doubt and dismay. The Ben Curry he knew was a huge, kindly man, even if grim and forbidding at times. He had taken the homeless boy and given him kindness and care; had, indeed, trained him as a son. Today, however, was the first inkling Mike had of the existence of that other family. Ben Curry had planed and acted with shrewdness and care.

  Mike Bastian had a decision to make, a decision that would change his entire life, whether for better or worse.

  Here in the country around the Vermilion Cliffs was the only world he knew. Beyond it? Well, he supposed he could punch cows. He was trained to do many things, and probably there were jobs awaiting such a man as himself.

  He could become a gambler, but he had seen and known a good many gamblers and did not relish the idea. Somewhere beyond this wilderness was a larger, newer, wealthier land—a land where honest men lived and reared their families.

  II

  In the massive stone house at the head of Toadstool Canyon, so called because of the gigantic toadstool-like stone near the entrance, Ben Curry leaned his great weight back in his chair and stared broodingly out the door over the valley below.

  His big face was blunt and unlined as rock, but the shock of hair above his leonine face was turning to gray. He was growing old. Even spring did not bring the old fire to his veins again, and it had been long since he had ridden out on one of the jobs he planned so shrewdly. It was time he quit.

  Yet, for a man who had made decisions sharply and quickly, he was, for the first time in his life, uncertain. For six years he had ruled supreme in this remote corner north of Colorado. For twenty years he had been an outlaw, and for fifteen of those twenty years he had ruled a gang that grew and extended its ramifications until it was an empire in itself.

  Six years ago he had moved to this remote country and created the stronghold where he now lived. Across the southern limit rolled the Colorado River, with its long canyons and maze of rocky wilderness, a bar to any pursuit from the country south of the river where he operated.

  Only at Lee’s Ferry was there a crossing, and in a cabin nearby his men watched it, night and day. That is, it was the only crossing known to other men. There were two more crossings—one that the gang used in going to and from their raids, and the other known only to himself. It was his ace-in-the-hole, even if not his only one.

  One law of the gang, never transgressed, was that there was to be no lawless activity in the Mormon country to the north of them. The Mormons and the Indians were left strickly alone, and were their friends. So were the few ranchers who lived in the area. These few traded at the stores run by the gang, and bought their supplies close to home and at cheaper prices than they could have managed elsewhere.

  Ben Curry had never quite made up his mind about Kerb Perrin. He knew that Perrin was growing restive, that he was aware that Curry was aging and was eager for the power of leadership. Yet the one factor Curry couldn’t be certain about was whether Perrin would stand for the taking over of the band by Mike Bastian.

  Well, Mike had been well trained; it would be his problem. Ben smiled grimly. He was the old bull of the herd, and Perrin was pawing the dirt, but what would he say when a young bull stepped in? One who had not won his spurs with the gang?

  That was why Curry had sent for him, for it was time Mike be groomed for leadership, time he moved out on his first job. And he had just the one. It was big, it was sudden, and it was ­dramatic. It would have an excellent effect on the gang if it was brought off smoothly, and he was going to let Mike plan the whole job himself.

  There was a sharp knock outside, and Curry smiled a little, recognizing it.

  “Come in!” he bellowed.

  He watched Perrin stride into the room with his quick, nervous steps, his eyes scanning the room.

  “Chief,” Perrin said, “the boys are gettin’ restless. It’s spring, you know, and most of them are broke. Have you got anything in mind?”

  “Sure, several things. But one that’s good and tough! Struck me it might be a good one to break the kid in on.”

  “Oh?” Perrin’s eyes veiled. “You mean he’ll go along?”

  “No, I’m going to let him run it. The whole show. It will be good for him.”

  Kerb Perrin absorbed that. For the first time, an element of doubt entered his mind. He had wondered before about Bastian and what his part would be in all this.

  For years, Perrin had looked forward to the time when he could take over. He knew there would be trouble with Rigger Molina, but he had thought that phase of it out. He knew he could handle it. But what if Curry was planning to jump young Bastian into leadership?

  Quick, hot passion surged through Perrin, and when he looked up, it was all he could do to keep his voice calm.

  “You think that’s wise?” he questioned. “How will the boys feel about goin’ out with a green kid?”

  “He knows what to do,” Curry said. “They’ll find he’s smart as any of them, and he knows plenty. This is a big job, and a tough one.”

  “Who goes with him?”

  “Maybe I’ll let him pick them,” Curry said thoughtfully. “Good practice for him.”

  “What’s the job?” Perrin asked, voice sullen.

  “The gold train!”

  Perrin’s fingers tightened, digging into his palms. This was the job he wanted! The shipment from the mines! It would be enormous, rich beyond anything they had done!

  Months before, in talking of this job, he had laid out his plan for it before Curry. But it had been vetoed. He had recommended the killing of every manjack of them, and burial of them all, so the train would vanish completely.

  “You sound like Molina,” Curry had said chuckling. “Too bloody!”

  “Dead men don’t talk!” he had replied grimly.

  “That will be tough for the kid,” Perrin said now, slowly, “Mighty tough!”

  Yet, even as he spoke he was thinking of something else. He was thinking of the effect of this upon the men of the outfit. He knew many of them liked Mike Bastian, and more than one of them had helped train him. In a way, many of the older men were as proud of Mike as if he had been their own son. If he stepped out now and brought off this job, he would acquire power and prestige in the gang equal to Perrin’s own.

  Fury engulfed Perrin. Curry had no right to do this to him! Sidetracking him for an untried kid. Shoving Bastian down all their throats!

  Suddenly, the rage died and in its place came resolution. It was time he acted on his own. He would swing his own job, the one he had had in mind for so long, and that would counteract the effect of the gold-train steal. Moreover, he would be throwing the challenge into Ben Curry’s teeth, for he would plan this job without consulting him. If there was going to be a struggle for leadership, it could begin here and now.

  “He’ll handle the job all right,” Curry said confidently. “He has been trained, and he has the mind for it. He plans well. I hadn’t spoken of it before, but I asked his advice on a few things without letting him know why, and he always came through with the right answers.”

  Kerb Perrin left the stone house filled with burning resentment but also something of triumph. At last, after years of taking orders, he was going on his own. Yet the still, small voice of fear was in him, too. What would Be
n Curry do?

  The thought made him quail. He had seen the cold fury of Curry when it was aroused, and he had seen him use a gun. He himself was fast, but was he as fast as Ben Curry? In his heart, he doubted it. He dismissed the thought, although storing it in his mind. Something would have to be done about Ben Curry …

  Mike Bastian stood before Ben Curry’s table and the two men stared at each other.

  Ben Curry, the old outlaw chief, huge, bearlike, and mighty, his eyes fierce yet glowing with a kindly light now, and something of pride, too. Facing him, tall and lithe, his shoulders broad and mighty, was Mike Bastian, child of the Frontier grown to manhood and trained in every art of the wilds, every dishonest practice in the books, every skill with weapons. Yet educated, too, a man who could conduct himself well in any company.

  “You take four men and look over the ground yourself, Mike,” Ben Curry was saying, “I want you to plan this one. The gold train leaves the mines on the twentieth. There will be five wagons, the gold distributed among them, although there won’t be a lot of it as far as quantity is concerned. That gold train will be worth roughly five hundred thousand dollars.

  “When that job is done,” he continued, “I’m going to step down and leave you in command. You knew I was planning that. I’m old, and I want to live quietly for awhile, and this outfit takes a strong hand to run it. Think you can handle it?”

  “I think so,” Mike Bastian said softly.

  “I think so, too. Watch Perrin—he’s the snaky one. Rigger is dangerous, but whatever he does will be out in the open. Not so Perrin. He’s a conniver. He never got far with me because I was always one jump ahead of him. And I still am!”

  The old man was silent for a few minutes, as he stared out the window.

  ‘‘Mike,” he said then, doubt entering his voice, “maybe I’ve done wrong. I meant to raise you the way I have. I ain’t so sure what is right and wrong, and never was. Never gave it much thought, though.

  “When I came west it was dog eat dog and your teeth had to be big. I got knocked down and kicked around some, and then I started taking big bites myself. I organized, and then I got bigger. In all these years nobody has ever touched me. If you’ve got a strong hand, you can do the same. Sometimes you’ll have to buy men, sometimes you’ll have to frighten them, and sometimes you’ll have to kill.”

  He shook his head as if clearing it of memories past, then glanced up.

  “Who will you take with you?” he asked “I mean, in scouting this layout.”

  Ben Curry waited, for it was judgment of men that Bastian would need most. It pleased him that Mike did not hesitate.

  “Roundy, Doc Sawyer, Colley and Garlin.”

  Curry glanced at him, his eyes hard and curious. “Why?”

  “Roundy has an eye for terrain like no man in this world,” Mike said. “He says mine’s as good, but I’ll take him along to verify or correct my judgment. Doc Sawyer is completely honest. If he thinks I’m wrong, he’ll say so. As for Colley and Garlin, they are two of the best men in the whole outfit. They will be pleased that I ask their help, which puts them on my side in a measure, and they can see how I work.”

  Curry nodded. “Smart—and you’re right. Colley and Garlin are two of the best men, and absolutely fearless.” He smiled a little. “If you have trouble with Perrin or Molina, it won’t hurt to have them on your side.”

  Despite himself, Mike Bastian was excited. He was twenty-two years old and by Frontier standards had been a man for several years. But in all that time, aside from a few trips into the Mormon country and one to Salt Lake, he had never been out of the maze of canyons and mountains north of the Colorado.

  Roundy led the way, for the trail was an old one to him. They were taking the secret route south used by the gang on their raids, and as they rode toward it, Mike stared at the country. He was always astonished by its ruggedness.

  Snow still lay in some of the darker places of the forest, but as they neared the canyon the high cliffs towered even higher and the trail dipped down through a narrow gorge of rock. Countless centuries of erosion had carved the rock into grotesque figures resembling those of men and animals, colored with shades of brown, pink, gray, and red, and tapering off into a pale yellow. There were shadowed pools among the rocks, some from snow water and others from natural springs, and there were scattered clumps of oak and piñon.

  In the bottom of the gorge the sun did not penetrate except at high noon, and there the trail wound along between great jumbled heaps of boulders, cracked and broken from their fall off the higher cliffs.

  Mike Bastian followed Roundy, who rode hump-shouldered on a ragged, gray horse that seemed as old as he himself, but as sure-footed and mountainwide. He had substituted boots for the moccasins he usually wore, although they reposed in his saddlebags, ready at hand.

  Behind them rode “Doc” Sawyer, his lean saturnine face quiet, his eyes faintly curious and interested as he scanned the massive walls of the canyon. “Tubby” Colley was short and thick-chested, and very confident—a hard jawed man who had been a first-rate ranch foreman before he shot two men and hit the outlaw trail.

  “Tex” Garlin was tall, rangy, and quiet. He was a Texan, and little was known of his background, although it was said he could carve a dozen notches on his guns if he wished.

  Suddenly, Roundy turned the gray horse and rode abruptly at the face of the cliff, but when close up, the sand and boulders broke and a path showed along the under-scoured rock. Following this for several hundred yards they found a canyon that cut back into the cliff itself, then turned to head toward the river.

  The roar of the Colorado, high with spring freshets, was loud in their ears before they reached it. Finally they came out on a sandy bank littered with driftwood. Nearby was a small cabin and a plot of garden. The door of the house opened and a tall old man came out.

  “Howdy!” he said. “I been expectin’ somebody.” His shrewd old eyes glanced from face to face, then hesitated at sight of Mike. “Ain’t seen you before,” he said pointedly.

  “It’s all right, Bill,” Roundy said. “This is Mike Bastian.”

  “Ben Curry’s boy?” Bill stared. “I heard a sight of you, son. I sure have! Can you shoot like they say?”

  Mike flushed. “I don’t know what they say,” he said, grinning. “But I’ll bet a lot of money I can hit the side of that mountain if it holds still.”

  Garlin stared at him thoughtfully, and Colley smiled a little.

  “Don’t take no funnin’ from him,” Roundy said. “That boy can shoot.”

  “Let’s see some shootin’, son,” Bill suggested. “I always did like to see a man that could shoot.”

  Bastian shook his head. “There’s no reason for shootin’,” he protested. “A man’s a fool to shoot unless he’s got cause. Ben Curry always taught me never to draw a gun unless I meant to use it.”

  “Go ahead,” Colley said, “show him.”

  Old Bill pointed. “See that black stick end juttin’ up over thar? It’s about fifty maybe sixty paces. Can you hit it?”

  “You mean that one?” Mike palmed his gun and fired, and the black stick pulverized.

  It was a movement so smooth and practiced that no one of the men even guessed he had intended to shoot, and Garlin’s jaws stopped their calm chewing and he stared with his mouth open for as long as it took to draw a breath. Then he glanced at Colley.

  “Wonder what Kerb would say to that?” he said, astonished. “This kid can shoot!”

  “Yeah,” Colley agreed, “but the stick didn’t have a gun!”

  Old Bill worked the ferry out of a cave under the cliff and freighted them across the swollen river in one hair-raising trip. With the river behind, they wound up through the rocks and started south.

  III

  The mining cowtown of Weaver was backed up near a large hill on the banks of a small creek. Colley and Garlin rode into the place at sundown, and an hour later Doc Sawyer and Roundy rode in.

&nb
sp; Garlin and Colley were leaning on the bar having a drink, and they ignored the newcomers. Mike Bastian followed not long afterward, and walked to the bar alone.

  Most of those in the saloon were Mexicans, but three tough-looking white men lounged against the bar nearby. They glanced at Mike and his buckskins, and one of them whispered something to the others, at which they all laughed.

  Doc Sawyer was sitting in a poker game, and his eyes lifted. Mike leaned nonchalantly against the bar, avoiding the stares of the three toughs who stood near him. One of them moved over closer.

  “Hi, stranger!” he said, “That’s a right purty suit you got. Where could I get one like it?”

  Garlin looked up and his face stiffened. He nudged Colley. “Look!” Garlin said quickly. “Corbus and Fletcher! An’ trouble huntin’! We’d better get into this!”

  Colley shook his head. “No. Let’s see what the kid does.”

  Mike looked around, his expression mild. “You want a suit like this?” he inquired of the stranger. His eyes were innocent, but he could see the sort of man he had to deal with. These three were tough, and dangerous. “Most any Navajo could make one for you.”

  “Just like that?” Corbus sneered.

  He was drinking and in a nagging, quarrelsome mood. Mike looked altogether too neat for his taste.

  “Sure! Just like this,” Mike agreed. “But I don’t know what you’d want with it though. This suit would be pretty hard for you to fill.”

  “Huh?” Corbus’ face flamed. Then this mouth tightened. “You gettin’ smart with me, kid?”

  “No.” Mike Bastian turned and his voice cracked like a whip in the suddenly silent room. “Neither am I being hurrahed by any lame-brained, liquor-guzzling saddle tramp! You made a remark about my suit, and I answered it. Now, you can have a drink on me, all three of you, and I’m suggesting you drink up.” His voice suddenly became soft. “I want to drink up because I want to be very, very sure we’re friends, see?”