The Trail to Crazy Man

by Louis L'Amour

  Tex Brisco was a man of the frontier. From riding the range in South and West Texas, he had drifted north with trail herds. He had seen some of the days around the beginning of Dodge and Ellsworth, and some hard fighting down in the Nations, and with rustlers along the Mexican border. He was an honest man, a sincere man. He had a quality to be found in many men of his kind and period—a quality of deep-seated loyalty that was his outstanding trait. Hard and reckless in demeanor, he rode with dash and acted with a flair. He had at times been called a hardcase. Yet no man lived long in a dangerous country, if he were reckless. There was a place always for courage, but intelligent courage, not the heedlessness of a harebrained youngster. Tex Brisco was twenty-five years old, but he had been doing a man’s work since he was eleven. He had walked with men, ridden with men, fought with men as one of them. He had asked no favors and had been granted none. Now, at twenty-five, he was a seasoned veteran. He was a man who knew the plains and the mountains, knew cattle, horses, and guns. He possessed a fierce loyalty to his outfit and to his friends.

  Shanghaied, he had quickly seen that the sea was not his element. He had concealed his resentment and gone to work, realizing that safety lay along that route. He had known his time would come. It had come when Rafe Caradec came aboard, and all his need for friendship, for loyalty, and for a cause had been tied to the big, soft-spoken stranger.

  Now Painted Rock was vibrant with danger. The men who did not hate him in Painted Rock were men who would not speak for him, or act for him. It was like Tex Brisco that he did not think in terms of help. He had his job, he knew his problem, and he knew he was the man to do it.

  The National Saloon was booming with sound. The tinny jangle of an out-of-tune piano mingled with hoarse laughter, shouts, and the rattle of glasses. The hitching rail was lined with horses.

  Tex walked between the buildings to the edge of the dark and empty street. Then he walked up to the horses and, speaking softly, made his way along the hitching rail, turning every slipknot into a hard knot.

  The Emporium was dark, except for a light in Baker’s living quarters where he sat with his wife and Ann Rodney. The stage station was lit by a feeble glow of a light over a desk as a station agent worked late over his books.

  It was a moonless night, and the stars were bright. Tex lit a cigarette, loosened his guns in his holsters, and studied the situation. The National was full. To step into that saloon was suicide, and Tex had no such idea in mind. It was early, and he would have to wait. Yet might it be the best way, if he stepped in? There would be a moment of confusion. In that instant he could act.

  Working his way back to a window, he studied the interior. It took him several minutes to locate Tom Blazer. The big man was standing by the bar with Fats McCabe. Slipping to the other end of the window, Tex could see that no one was between them and the rear door. He stepped back into the darkest shadows and, leaning against the building, finished his cigarette. When it was down to a stub, he threw it on the ground and carefully rubbed it out with the toe of his boot. Then he pulled his hat low, and walked around to the rear of the saloon.

  There was some scrap lumber there, and he skirted the rough pile, avoiding some bottles. It was cool out here, and he rubbed his fingers a little, working his hands to keep the circulation going. Then he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It opened under his hand, and, if it made a sound, it went unheard. Stepping inside, he closed the door after him, pleased that it opened outward.

  In the hurly-burly of the interior one more cowhand went unseen. Nobody even glanced his way. He sidled up to the bar, then reached over under Tom Blazer’s nose, drew the whisky bottle toward him, and poured a drink into a glass just rinsed by the bartender.

  Tom Blazer scarcely glanced at the bottle, for other bottles were being passed back and forth. Fats McCabe stood beside Tom and, without noticing Tex, went on talking.

  “That blasted Marsh!” Tom said thickly. “I got him! I been wantin’ him a long time! Yuh should have seen the look in his eyes when I shoved that pistol against him and pulled the trigger!”

  Tex’s lips tightened, and he poured his glass full once more. He left it sitting on the bar in front of him. His eyes swept the room. Bruce Barkow was here, and Pod Gomer. Tex moved over a little closer to McCabe.

  “That’ll finish ’em off,” McCabe was saying. “When Shute took over, I knew they wouldn’t last long. If they get out of the country, they’ll be lucky. They’ve no supplies now, and it will be snowin’ within a few days. The winter will get ’em, if we don’t, or the Injuns.”

  Tex Brisco smiled grimly. Not before I get you! he thought. That comes first.

  The piano was banging away with “Oh, Susanna!” and a bunch of cowhands were trying to sing it. Joe Benson leaned on his bar talking to Pod Gomer. Barkow sat at a table in the corner, staring morosely into a glass. Joe Gorman and Fritz Handl were watching a poker game.

  Tex glanced again at the back door. No one stood between the door and himself. Well, why wait?

  Just then Tom Blazer reached for the bottle in front of Tex, and Tex pulled it away from his hand. Tom stared. “Hey, what yuh tryin’ to do?” he demanded belligerently.

  “I’ve come for yuh, Blazer,” Tex said. “I’ve come to kill a skunk that shoots a helpless man when he’s on his back. How are yuh against standin’ men, Blazer?”

  “Huh?” Tom Blazer said stupidly. Then he realized what had been said, and he thrust his big face forward for a closer look. The gray eyes he saw were icy, the lantern-jawed Texan’s face was chill as death, and Tom Blazer jerked back. Slowly, his face white, Fats McCabe drew aside.

  To neither man came the realization that Tex Brisco was alone. All they felt was the shock of his sudden appearance, here, among them. Brisco turned, stepping one pace away from the bar. “Well, Tom,” he said quietly, his voice just loud enough to carry over the sound of the music, “I’ve come for yuh.”

  Riveted to the spot, Tom Blazer felt an instant of panic. Brisco’s presence here had the air of magic, and Tom was half frightened by the sheer unexpectedness of it. Sounds in the saloon seemed to die out, although they still went full blast, and Tom stared across that short space like a man in a trance, trapped and faced with a fight to the death. There would be no escaping this issue, he knew. He might win, and he might lose, but it was here, now, and he had to face it. He realized suddenly that it was a chance he had no desire to make. Wouldn’t anyone notice? Why didn’t Fats say something? Tex Brisco stood there, staring at him.

  “Yuh’ve had yore chance,” Tex said gently. “Now I’m goin’ to kill yuh!”

  The shock of the word kill snapped Tom Blazer out of it. He dropped into a half crouch, and his lips curled in a snarl of mingled rage and fear. His clawed hand swept back for his gun.

  In the throbbing and rattle of the room the guns boomed like a crash of thunder. Heads whirled, and liquor-befuddled brains tried to focus eyes. All they saw was Tom Blazer, sagging back against the bar, his shirt darkening with blood, and the strained, foolish expression on his face like that of a man who had been shocked beyond reason.

  Facing the room was a lean, broad-shouldered man with two guns, and, as they looked, he swung a gun at Fats McCabe. Instinctively, at the boom of guns, McCabe’s brain had reacted, but a shade slow. His hand started for his gun. It was an involuntary movement that, had he had but a moment’s thought, would never have been made. He had no intention of drawing. All he wanted was out, but the movement of his hand was enough. It was too much.

  Tex Brisco’s gun boomed again, and Fats toppled over on his face. Then Tex opened up, and three shots, blasting into the brightly lit room, brought it to complete darkness. Brisco faded into that darkness, swung the door open, and vanished as a shot clipped the air over his head.

  He ran hard for fifty feet, then ducked into the shadow of a barn, threw himself over a low corral fence, and ran across th
e corral in a low crouch. Shouts and orders, then the crash of glass, came from the saloon.

  The door burst open again, and he could have got another man, but only by betraying his position. He crawled through the fence and, keeping close to a dark house, ran swiftly to its far corner. He paused there, breathing heavily. So far, so good.

  From here on he would be in comparative light, but the distance was enough now. He ran on swiftly for the river. Behind him he heard curses and yells as men found their knotted bridle reins. At the end of the log, Tex retrieved his spurs. Then, gasping for breath from his hard run, he ran across the log and started for his horse. He saw it suddenly, and then he saw something else.

  XV

  In the dim light, Tex recognized Joe Gorman by his hat. Joe wore his hat brim rolled to a point in front.

  “Hi, Texas!” Gorman said. Tex could see the gun in his hand, waist high and leveled on him.

  “Hi, Joe. Looks like yuh smelled somethin’.”

  “Yeah”—Joe nodded—“I did at that. Happened to see somebody ride up here in the dark, and got curious. When yuh headed for the saloon, I got around yuh and went in. Then I saw yuh come in the back door. I slipped out just before the shootin’ started, so’s I could beat yuh back here in case yuh got away.”

  “Too bad yuh missed the fun,” Brisco said quietly.

  Behind Tex the pursuit seemed to have gained no direction as yet. His mind was on a hair trigger, watching for a break. Which of his guns was still loaded? He had forgotten whether he put the loaded gun in the holster or in his belt.

  “Who’d yuh get?” asked Gorman.

  “Tom Blazer. Fats McCabe, too.”

  “I figgered Tom. I told him he shouldn’t have shot the kid. That was a low-down trick. But why shoot Fats?”

  “He acted like he was reachin’ for a gun.”

  “Huh. Don’t take a lot to get a man killed, does it?”

  Brisco could see in the dark enough to realize that Gorman was smiling a little.

  “How do yuh want it, Tex? Should I let yuh have it now, or save yuh for Shute? He’s a bad man, Tex.”

  “I think yuh’d better slip yore gun in yore holster and go back home, Joe,” Tex said. “Yuh’re the most decent one of a bad lot.”

  “Mebbe I want the money I’d get for you, Tex. I can use some.”

  “Think yuh’d live to collect?”

  “Yuh mean Caradec? He’s through, Brisco. Through. We got Bo. Now we got you. That leaves only Caradec and Johnny Gill. They won’t be so tough.”

  “Yuh’re wrong, Joe,” Tex said quietly. “Rafe could take the lot of yuh, and he will. But you bought into my game yoreself. I wouldn’t ask for help, Joe. I’d kill yuh myself.”

  “You?” Gorman chuckled with real humor. “And me with the drop on yuh? Not a chance! Why, Tex, one of these slugs would get yuh, and, if I have to start blastin’, I’m goin’ to empty the gun before I quit.”

  “Uhn-huh,” Tex agreed, “yuh mean, get me before I could shoot?” He repeated: “Not a chance.”

  The sounds of pursuit were coming now. The men had a light and had found his tracks.

  “Toward the river, I’ll be a ’coon!” a voice yelled. “Let’s go!”

  Here it was! Joe Gorman started to yell, then saw the black figure ahead of him move, and his gun blazed. Tex felt the shocking jolt of a slug, and his knees buckled, but his gun was out, and he triggered two shots, fast. Joe started to fall, and he fired again, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Tex jerked the slipknot in his reins loose and dragged himself into the saddle. He was bleeding badly. His mind felt hazy, but he saw Joe Gorman move on the ground, and heard him say: “Yuh did it, damn yuh! Yuh did it!”

  “So long, Joe,” Tex whispered hoarsely.

  He walked the horse for twenty feet, then started moving faster. His brain was singing with a strange noise, and his blood seemed to drum in his brain. He headed up the tree-covered slope, and the numbness crawled up his legs. He fought like a cornered wolf against the darkness that crept over him. I can’t die … I can’t! he kept saying in his brain. Rafe’ll need help! I can’t!

  Fighting the blackness and numbness, he tied the bridle reins to the saddle horn, and thrust both feet clear through the stirrups. Sagging in the saddle, he got his handkerchief out and fumbled a knot, tying his wrists to the saddle horn.

  The light glowed and died, and the horse walked on, weaving in the awful darkness, weaving through a world of agony and the soft, clutching hands that seemed to be pulling Tex down, pulling him down. The darkness closed in around him, but under him he seemed still to feel the slow plodding of the horse …

  * * * * *

  Roughly, the distance to the fort was seventy miles, a shade less, perhaps. Rafe Caradec rode steadily into the increasing cold of the wind. There was no mistaking the seriousness of Bo’s condition. The young cowhand was badly shot up, weak from loss of blood, and despite the amazing vitality of frontier men, his chance was slight unless his wounds had proper care.

  Bowing his head to the wind, Rafe headed the horse down a draw and its partial shelter. There was no use thinking of Tex. Whatever had happened in Painted Rock had happened now, or was happening. Brisco might be dead. He might be alive and safe, even now heading back to the Crazy Man, or he might be wounded and in need of help. Tex Brisco was an uncertainty, but Bo Marsh hung between life and death, hence there was no choice. The friendship and understanding between the lean, hard-faced Texan and Rafe Caradec had grown aboard ship. Rafe was not one to take lightly the Texan’s loyalty in joining him in his foray into Wyoming. Now Brisco might be dead, killed in a fight he would never have known but for Rafe. Yet Tex would have had it no other way. His destinies were guided by his loyalties. Those loyalties were his life, his religion, his reason for living.

  Yet despite his worries over Marsh and Brisco, Rafe found his thoughts returning again and again to Ann Rodney. Why had she ridden to warn them of the impending attack? Had it not been for that warning the riders would have wiped out Brisco at the same time they got Marsh, and would have followed it up to find Rafe and Johnny back in the cañon. It would have been, or could have been, a clean sweep.

  Why had Ann warned them? Was it because of her dislike of violence and killing? Or was there some other, some deeper, feeling? Yet how could that be? What feeling could Ann have for any of them, believing as she seemed to believe that he was a thief, or worse? The fact remained that she had come, that she had warned them. Remembering her, he recalled the flash of her eyes, the proud lift of her chin, the way she walked. He stared grimly into the night and swore softly. Was he in love?

  “Who knows?” he demanded viciously of the night. “And what good would it do if I was?”

  He had never been to the fort, yet knew it lay between the forks of the Piney and its approximate location. His way led across the billowing hills and through a country marked by small streams lined with cottonwood, box elder, willow, chokeberry, and wild plum. That this was the Indian country, he knew. The unrest of the tribes was about to break into open warfare, and already there had been sporadic attacks on haying or wood-cutting parties, and constant attacks were being made on the Missouri steamboats far to the north.

  Red Cloud, most influential chieftain among the Sioux, had tried to hold the tribes together and, despite the continued betrayal of treaties by the white man, had sought to abide by the code he had laid down for his people. With Man-Afraid-Of-His-Horse, the Oglala chief, Red Cloud was the strongest of all the Sioux leaders, or had been. With Custer’s march into the Black Hills and the increasing travel over the Laramie and Bozeman Trails, the Sioux were growing restless. The Sioux medicine man, Sitting Bull, was indulging in war talk, and he was aided and abetted by two powerful warriors—Crazy Horse and Gall. No one in the West but understood that an outbreak of serious nature was overdue.

&nbs
p; Rafe Caradec was aware of all this. He was aware, too, that it would not be an easy thing to prevail upon the doctor to leave the fort, or upon the commander to allow him to leave. In the face of impending trouble, his place was with the Army …

  * * * * *

  News of the battle on the Crazy Man, after Ann’s warning, reached her that evening. The return of the triumphant Shute riders was enough to tell her what had happened. She heard them ride into the street, heard their yells and their shouts. She heard that Bo Marsh was definitely dead, even though some of the Shute riders were harsh in their criticism of Tom Blazer for that action.

  While the Shute outfit had ridden away, following their attack, fearful of the effects of sharpshooting from the timber, they were satisfied. Winter was coming on, and they had destroyed the cabin on the Crazy Man and killed Bo Marsh. Mistakenly they also believed they had killed Brisco and wounded at least one other man.

  Sick at heart, Ann had walked back into her room and stood by the window. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the desire to get away, to escape all this sickening violence, the guns, the killings, the problems of frontier life. Back East there were lovely homes along quiet streets, slow-running streams, men who walked quietly on Sunday mornings. There were parties, theaters, friends, homes.

  Her long ride had tired her. The touch of Rafe Caradec’s hand, the look in his eyes, had given her a lift. Something had sparked within her, and she felt herself drawn to him, yearning toward him with everything feminine that was in her. Riding away, she had heard the crash of guns, shouts, and yells. Had she been too late?

  There had been no turning back. She had known there was nothing she could do. Her natural good sense had told her that she would only complicate matters if she tried to stay. Nor did she know now what she would have done if she had stayed. Where was her sympathy? With Shute’s riders, or with this strange, tall young man who had come to claim half her ranch and tell fantastic stories of knowing her father aboard a ship? Every iota of intelligence she had told her the man was all wrong, that his story could not be true. Bruce Barkow’s story of her father’s death had been the true one. What reason for him to lie? Why would he want to claim her land when there was so much more to be had for the taking? Her father had told her, and Gene Baker agreed, that soon all this country would be open to settlement, and there would be towns and railroads here. Why choose one piece of land, a large section of it worthless, when the hills lay bare for the taking?