Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Standing at the door, she watched the riders go back down the trail the way they had come. From her bed she picked up the gun.

  “I’ll go.” Dodie got up quickly. “You stand by the door with the gun.”

  “Don’t get out of sight.”

  The sound of the opening door turned both men. Janice saw the sudden shine of animal fever in Wycoff’s eyes. He took a half step forward.

  Janice stepped into the doorway, holding the gun in plain sight. “Mr. Griffin, we’ve a sick woman in here. She needs warm food, and I’m afraid she has pneumonia.”

  Griffin’s lean face was grave. He looked at her out of gray, cold eyes and nodded. “Of course. We’ll make her some broth.”

  Wycoff said something under his breath and Griffin turned on him sharply. From Wycoff’s reaction, Janice knew that whatever Griffin had said angered him.

  Griffin turned back to her, but kept his eyes on Wycoff as he spoke. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll make the soup.”

  “I can make it.” Dodie stepped past Janice, a small kettle in her hand. “If you’ll give me what I need.”

  Wycoff backed off a step, watching Dodie. He glanced from her to Griffin and touched his tongue to his lips. When he glanced at the wagon Janice held her gun on him. He backed up and sat down.

  Dodie went to the fire, accepted meat and barley from Griffin, and went to work. From time to time she glanced at Wycoff.

  Janice saw that the teamster was staring hungrily at Dodie as she worked, but the threat of the gun in the doorway held him back. And Dodie was careful never to come between the gun and Wycoff. She worked swiftly, but with no lost motion.

  When the soup was ready, Griffin gestured at the coffeepot. “Take that, too. You and Miss Ryan could use some coffee, I expect.”

  Janice saw Wycoff get to his feet and turn away. He walked slowly, and Griffin turned instantly to watch him. Wycoff’s right hand was carried a little high, his elbow bent. Griffin’s lips thinned down.

  “Try it,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you do.”

  Wycoff turned carefully, letting his arm straighten. When he completed his turn he was smiling. “Sure. I can wait.” He walked back to the fire and sat down. “Don’t know Barker very well, do you?” He nodded toward Griffin’s gun. “He’s better with one of those than you are. He’s better, maybe, than Mabry. Seen him at Rattlesnake Ranch, where the Plummer gang used to hang out. Plummer could beat him, but not all the time. I seen him empty a gun into a post in no more’n a second.”

  “Did the post have a gun?”

  Wycoff’s lips thinned down at the retort, but he made no further comment.

  Dodie hurried back to the wagon then and Janice closed the door.

  Dodie fed Maggie her soup. The older woman was conscious and seemed aware of their surroundings. She looked up at Dodie. “Are we still here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish that man with the guns would show up. I had faith in him.”

  “Yes.” Dodie looked at Janice. “I think he was in love with you.”

  “Oh, no!” she protested.

  “If you had asked him, he would have come with us.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “He wouldn’t have come for me,” Dodie said quietly, “but if he had asked me, I would have gone with him.”

  “But he’s a killer!”

  “I wish we had him here now,” Dodie said. “I wish we did.”

  Suppose, Janice thought, she had asked him? It was too late to think of that now and there had been no reason to ask him, only…she knew that Tom had secretly wanted him to come, respecting his experience. Yet if what Griffin had said was true, he must have followed them.

  “I scarcely talked to him!” she said.

  “I didn’t talk to him at all,” Dodie replied quietly. “But I would have gone with him.”

  Dodie had made enough soup for all three, and now Janice and Dodie took their plates and began to eat. Janice was thinking back to the moment when she had first seen Mabry in the stage station, how her step had faltered, and how he glanced at her quickly, and then went on by, a big, brown-faced man with wide shoulders. Not really good-looking, but strong, so very strong. Her face flushed a little at the thought. She couldn’t recall ever before having seen a man who was so—so male.

  Yet it was not only that. There was a thoughtfulness in him, a consideration for others, a sense of delicacy. He had hesitated to join them at the table, and only when they insisted had he come.

  What was love, anyway? Who could say how it happened? Did it come only of long association? Or did it come quickly, sharply, like a pain or a shaft of sunlight through clouds?

  “I think,” Dodie said quietly, “you’re in love with him, too!”

  Chapter 12

  KING MABRY OPENED his eyes to the shadowed light of late evening. Turning on his side, he glanced around. Healy was gone.

  The room was cool, the fire burned down to coals, glowing here and there.

  Mabry eased himself out of bed and tried his strength by standing. Shakily he moved to the fireplace. There was wood in the bin, and he built up the fire. Obviously Healy had been gone for some time.

  When the fire was blazing again he looked around, found the coffeepot, and put it on the fire with fresh coffee. Surprisingly, despite his weakness, he felt good.

  After examining his wounds, he dressed, taking his time and stopping to rest. He was very thirsty and he drank several gourds of water. When the coffee was ready he filled a cup and drank it, black and scalding.

  Healy had been gone too long. Mabry belted on his remaining gun and banked the fire carefully. He was restless from confinement but knew his strength would allow only limited movement.

  He got into his coat and opened the door, inhaling deeply of the crisp, cold air. It was like drinking deep of a thinner, colder, purer water.

  Outside was snow, only snow. Healy’s tracks led around the house and he easily picked out the most recent ones. He started to follow, then pulled up short.

  Four Indians had stopped their horses on the slope near the barn and were looking toward the house. All were young, and they looked mean and tough.

  Mabry remained where he was, at the corner of the house. Three of the Indians had Winchesters and he had only his .44, but there was a slit inside his buffalo-coat pocket that enabled him to reach through and draw the gun under cover of the coat.

  The Indians were wrapped in moth-eaten blankets and two wore old government-issue Army jackets. They started down the slope, but one hung back, arguing angrily.

  One dismounted and started for the door of the barn, and Mabry knew it was time to make a move or lose a horse. He stepped past the corner of the house and loosened the loops around the buttons of his coat with his left hand. He had taken three steps before they saw him.

  “How,” Mabry said, and waited.

  These were renegade Sioux, and if trouble started they would be tough to handle. The Indian who had hung back he discounted. This Indian was older, his blanket looked better, and he had a shrewd look about him.

  “Where squaw?” The Indian on the ground spoke first.

  “No squaw,” Mabry said. “Just one horse and one gun.”

  One of the mounted Indians grunted and the one on the ground started to open the barn door.

  “Lay off that!” Mabry started forward quickly, and as he moved the mounted Indian lifted his rifle. Turning on the ball of his foot, Mabry shot through the opening of his coat, and the Indian let go of his rifle and fell forward over his horse’s neck and into the snow.

  The unexpectedness of it stopped them. They had seen no gun, and the white man seemed to be alone. They looked from the dead Indian to Mabry, and there was a smell of gun smoke in the air.

  Then the Indian who had not wanted trouble turned his pony and started to ride away. The remaining mounted man started to follow, but the Indian on the ground started to pick up the fallen Winchester. As he reached for it, a bullet ki
cked up snow in his face and a rifle report slapped hard against the hills.

  “Leave that!” Mabry shouted. “Get going!”

  The Sioux said something bitter and swung to his pony’s back. He turned the pony, and, his face dark with anger, he shouted at Mabry again.

  When they were out of sight, Mabry crossed to the Winchester and picked it up. It was newer than his own, and carved into the stock were the initials H.S. Stolen from some white man, or taken from a body.

  Tom Healy came down off the ridge with the rifle in his hands. “Thought I’d let ’em know you weren’t alone.”

  “Good man.”

  “Those Indians are heading right for the wagons,” Healy said anxiously. “And there’s more of them close by.”

  The Indian pony stood a few yards away, near the dead brave. They had not even offered to carry him away, which was additional evidence that they were renegades, outlawed by the tribe, probably, as well as by the whites.

  The pony had an old brand on his shoulder, and he shied slightly when Mabry walked to him. “Ride this one,” he said. “I’ll saddle up.”

  His head was aching with a dull, persistent throb, and his side bothered him, but he felt good. Yet he would have little endurance…that he must remember.

  They were astride the horses and moving when the first shot sounded. It was over in the woods to the east of them, and it was followed by an outburst of firing. Swinging his horse, Mabry put the black down the trail at a hard run.

  Just as he cleared the crest he heard another burst of firing, then a scream.

  The two vans were drawn up as Healy had said, but now a man lay sprawled over a log, his head split open and his skull showing the raw red wound where a scalp had been jerked free.

  The three Indians who had ridden from the cabin had been joined by four others. Three of them struggled with Janice at the door of the van. A white man lying on the ground tried to lift himself for a shot, but an Indian fired first and the man was slammed back to the earth.

  From within the van there was a heavy report. Ignoring the Indians fighting with Janice, Mabry dropped to one knee as he slid from his horse. He took a careful breath, let it out, and squeezed off his shot.

  An Indian sprang suddenly forward. His body slammed hard against the side of the van, then fell back. Instantly Mabry shifted his rifle to another Indian and fired.

  One of those near Janice sprang away and grabbed at his rifle, which lay against a log. Healy shot and the Indian stumbled, then started forward again.

  But Healy had shot from the back of his horse and now the pony went charging down the hill into the middle of the wild scramble around the vans.

  Mabry grabbed at the pommel as the black started, felt a tearing pain in his wounded side, and then was in the saddle and riding low like an Indian.

  Three Sioux were down and the others running. One took a snap shot and Mabry heard the sound of the bullet. He fired across the saddle, holding his rifle with one hand. Then he fired again, and the Indian went down.

  He swung the black and looked back at the vans. Healy was on the ground and fighting with an Indian. Dodie had come out of the wagon with a Colt in her hand, but Janice had been thrown across a pony and an Indian was mounted behind her.

  The black was rested and corn-fed. Moreover, he liked to run. Mabry jumped him into a lunging run, angling across the course of the Sioux. As Mabry came up on him the Sioux threw Janice from him into a drift and swung to meet Mabry. As they came abreast, the lean, savage-faced Indian threw himself from his horse and hit Mabry. They went off the running horse into the snow.

  The Sioux struck viciously with his knife but the blade caught in Mabry’s buffalo coat. Mabry caught the Indian’s greasy hair and jerked his face down to meet the upward smash of Mabry’s skull in the crushing “Liverpool kiss” known to water-front and rough-and-tumble fighters. The brave fell back, his face streaming blood from a broken nose and smashed lips.

  Heedless of the knife, Mabry swung. It was a wide swing and should not have landed, but it did. The Sioux went down, rolled over, and came up, his face a smear of blood. He threw himself at Mabry, his knife held low, cutting edge up. Mabry slapped the knife wrist aside to deflect the point, then caught the arm and threw the Indian over his hip, breaking his arm.

  The brave hit hard but came up again, his knife arm askew, and grabbed for his fallen rifle. Mabry shot him from the hip with his .44 and the Indian stumbled three steps forward and slid on his face in the snow.

  Janice was on her knees, hair fallen around her shoulders, her face haggard, her dress ripped.

  His heart pounding wildly, Mabry spun around, his gun ready to chop down any further attackers. But what Indians remained alive were gone.

  He walked over and dropped beside Janice. With a ragged sob, she fell into his arms. He held her, looking past her to the wagons.

  Dodie stood near them, shading her eyes toward them. Slow smoke lifted from the fire. There was the quiet of a fading winter afternoon, crisp and cold. The sky was gray, with only the dark line of crouching trees to offer relief.

  Singularly, nowhere was there violence. It had come, smashing with its sudden horror, and then was gone. Gently Mabry lifted the sobbing girl to her feet.

  Walking slowly to his horse, he retrieved his rifle from the snow. He could feel the wetness of blood inside his clothes, and the ache in his head beat heavily.

  At the wagons Dodie waited for them. Her face was white and still. “There were seven,” she said. “They took the horses.”

  Two Indians lay near the wagons. One of them sprawled at the foot of the step to the door. Mabry glanced at the body. This Indian had been shot at point-blank range and his chest was covered with powder burns. Mabry glanced thoughtfully at Dodie, who still held the Colt.

  The man with his head split open was Wycoff. The other man was Griffin. He was fairly riddled with bullets.

  “He killed another one, I think,” Dodie said, “up under the trees. They came so suddenly, we—”

  “I know,” Mabry said. “Get what food there is. We’ve got to get away from here. They’ll be back.”

  “After that?” Healy asked.

  “These were renegades, without squaws. They’ll be back.”

  Janice straightened, drawing away from him. With one hand she pushed her hair back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…It was just…”

  “Don’t think about it. Get ready to move.”

  He walked to the Indian at the step and, taking him by the heel, dragged him away. His blood made a red streak on the trampled snow and Janice turned her face away.

  Slowly, holding an elbow against his bad side, Mabry picked up the scattered weapons. Two Indian rifles and the rifle Wycoff had carried. Griffin’s horse and rifle were gone, but Mabry unbuckled the cartridge belt and took the Colt. The Indian pony that Healy had ridden was gone too.

  “We can’t go,” Janice protested. “Maggie’s sick. She’s very sick.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mabry’s voice was harsh from his own pain. “She’ll have to go. We can’t defend this place. We surprised them once. Next time they won’t be surprised.”

  Tom Healy came up quietly and took Janice by the arm. “You get the food. I’ll help Dodie with Maggie.”

  Janice hesitated. “You can’t bring her out like this! You can’t let her see those—those bodies.”

  Mabry turned impatiently. Every minute counted and his own weakness was growing. There was at least a chance at the cabin, which was strong and well built.

  “She’ll have to stand it,” he replied sharply. “I haven’t time to conduct a funeral. Get her wrapped up and let’s get going!”

  Janice stared at him, her eyes revealing her contempt. She turned abruptly away.

  Mabry looked to the hills. He felt sick and empty. He knew there were more Indians around. And he knew they would be coming back.

  They would be coming back, and they were just two men, with three women, one too ill to
travel.

  Chapter 13

  WITH JANICE ON one side and Mabry on the other they held the sick woman upon the horse. Maggie seemed only vaguely conscious of what was happening, and Mabry was worried. The sooner they got her into a house and in bed, the better.

  Behind the saddle the black was piled high with blankets and quilts from the vans. Upon the Indian pony were supplies and the gold intended for Maguire in Butte.

  Dodie walked ahead, carrying the shotgun. Suddenly she stopped, hesitated a moment, and then called, “King?”

  Healy took his place beside the horse and Mabry walked up to Dodie. By now it was dark, and the sky was heavily overcast.

  “I smell smoke.”

  Mabry lifted his head, testing the air. It was smoke, all right. And there was a smell he did not like. It was not merely wood smoke.

  Telling her to stay with the others and to bring them on carefully, he went on ahead. When he had gone several hundred yards, he stopped again. His imagination had reached ahead and he already knew what he would see. Below him in the darkness a dozen small red eyes winked at the night.

  They were all that remained of the fire that had destroyed the cabin.

  Gone…and the barn also.

  Alone in the darkness on the hill, he knew he faced his most desperate hour. For himself it was a small problem, not more than he had often faced. For the others, and particularly the sick woman, it was a matter of life or death.

  He did not now think of Barker, long absent from his thoughts. He no longer thought of the Indians who would soon be seeking out their trail.

  He thought only of the three women, who must have shelter, and especially of the sick woman, who must have care, rest, and good food.

  Behind him they were coming on, trusting in him. To Janice he was a brute, a savage. It was in her eyes whenever she looked at him. He had saved them, yes. But only by killing and destruction, and she believed him capable of nothing else.

  And was he?

  Gloomily he stared at the dying embers. There was no time to think of that now. The sick woman could go little farther.