Outside he could hear shouts of anger, and Butcher Schaum fired at the door. From beside a window he snapped a hasty shot at Schaum, and smiled grimly as the man sprang for cover.
There was a tin pan filled with water near the door and he ducked his head into it, rinsing out his hair and washing the wound. From time to time he took a glimpse from the window. Obviously, there was a council of war going on down on the edge of the gully.
Freeing himself of some of the ants, he reloaded his pistol. A rifle stood by the door, and he picked it up. Digging around he found some .44-.40s and shoved cartridges into the magazine.
Hastily, he took stock. He had enough grub here for days. He had ammunition enough. They would know that as well as he. From the front the place was almost invulnerable. He glanced up, and his face tightened. The roof was made of rough planking and piled over with straw thatch. Fire dropped from the shelving cliff behind could burn him out.
How long would it take them to think of that? They wouldn’t leave without the gold, he knew. And regardless of where it had gotten to, he wasn’t leaving without it either.
The bank was in view of the window. He could cover it. The fact remained that they would never let him get away alive, and it would not take them long to resign themselves to burning him out. Much of their own gear was inside, which would cause some hesitation. It would be a last resort for them—but the end of him.
His only way out would be straight ahead, across that fifty yards of open space. Not more than one would go to the shelf above, and the other two would be waiting to cut him down.
Not more than one? His eyes narrowed. Was there a way to the top of the cliff? Hastily, he took a glance outside, caught a bit of movement in the brush, and put two quick shots into it with his rifle. Then he tried two more shots, spaced at random along the edge of the gully, merely as a warning.
Reloading the rifle, he went to the back of the cabin. The back wall was the cliff itself. Trying to recall the looks of the place, he remembered there had been some vines or brush suspended from the shelf. Perhaps he could get up under the edge of those vines! Taking a hasty glance through the window, he went to the back of the house.
There was a place where a plank was too short. Standing atop a chair, he began pulling at the thatch. It was well placed, and his fingers were soon raw from tugging at it, yet he was making progress.
From time to time he returned to the window. Several times, shots came into the cabin.
“Give yourself up, Murphy, and we’ll split that gold anyway you want it,” Schaum yelled.
“You go to blazes!” he roared back. He was seething with anger. “It’s you or me now, so don’t try none of your tricks! I ain’t leavin’ here now until all three of you are dead or my prisoners. Unless you want to hightail it out of here, I’m gittin’ you, Schaum!”
A volley of rifle shots was the reply. He crouched below the stone sill, and when the volley ended, he tried a quick shot. A reply burned his shoulder, and he shot again, then put down the rifle and returned to his digging at the thatch.
Soon he had a hole he could peer up through. A wild grapevine hung down from the brush overhead, trailing down from the bending branches of the brush. Up in back of it was a hollow in the rock. It might offer a foothold. The hollow was right under the very shelf of rock he had seen on nearing the cabin. It would be invisible from in front of the cabin if he could get up behind that brush. There would be an instant when he would be half revealed. The instant when he reached up to get his hands on the brush or rock.
The day wore on, and he dug up some biscuits and munched them cheerfully. He found a couple of cartridge belts and slung them to his hips, holstering the guns. Then he stuffed his pockets with rifle shells.
“Gettin’ hungry out there?” he yelled. “I got lots of chow!”
A string of vile curses replied to him, and he studied the terrain ahead of him through the crack of the door. A dozen bullet holes let little swords of light into the shadows inside.
He went to the bucket and drank, then he stripped and brushed more ants from him. Dressing again, he glanced from the window. The saddled horse was gone. As he listened, he heard the sounds of a rapidly ridden horse leaving. Then a shout from Schaum.
“Yore last chance, Murphy!” Schaum shouted. “Come out or we burn you out.”
He did not want them to think that he had planned for that. He fired two quick shots from the window, and drew one shot in reply. Then he heard something hit the roof. Hastily, he got up on the chair. Smoke came to his nostrils. He thrust his head up and got a whiff of smoke, then a blast of flame and heat! Thrusting his rifle through the hole, he struggled to pull himself up.
He got his shoulders through, then his six-guns hung. The thatch in front was roaring now and the fire was spreading toward him. Wildly, he ripped at it to make the hole larger. Then, getting a hand in a rock crevice, he tugged himself up.
The rock crumbled in his fingers, and with a wild gasp of despair he felt himself sliding back. Desperately, his hand shot out, caught a handful of brush. His arms jerked in their sockets, and then, slowly, he dragged himself up.
With his feet clinging precariously to a tiny ledge, he glanced back. His rifle lay where he had left it and as the fire spread across the roof the shells in the magazine began to explode…he heard yelling, what they thought was going on he couldn’t imagine, maybe they thought he was still shooting at them. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up into the hollow under the shelf.
The roof below was a roaring furnace now. The slightest slip would send him plunging into the flames. Smoke rose in a stifling cloud. He pulled himself higher until the shelf was directly over his back. As he clung there, fighting for breath, he heard footsteps grate on the rock only a few inches over his head.
There would be no chance to get over the edge of the shelf as long as that man remained there. Clinging to the brush, his feet resting on a small ledge, only a couple of inches wide, he turned his head. A black hole gaped in the stone face. A hole scarcely large enough for a man’s body, a hole under the shelf of rock.
Carefully, taking his whole weight on his arms, he lifted his feet and thrust them into the hole. Catching his toes behind a minor projection of rock, he drew himself back inside.
Dropping his feet, he felt around. Inside the opening, the hole was several feet deep. He drew back until he was on his knees, only his head in the opening. Less smoke was coming toward him now. He could hear shouts from below, and one from above him.
“See him?” The voice was that of Cornish.
“Blamed fool burned to death,” Schaum said in astonishment. “He never even showed.”
“I’m coming down!” Cornish shouted.
“You stay there,” Schaum bellowed. “I don’t like the look of this!”
Brad felt of the walls and top of the hole he was in. At the back it slanted down and around. But feeling at the top in back, he felt earth and roots. It was probably not more than two feet to the surface there, or very little more.
Where was Cornish? The question was answered when he heard the man shout another question at Schaum. He was probably at least thirty feet away.
Removing a spur, Brad Murphy dug at the earth. He worked carefully, avoiding sound. He dug at the soft earth, letting it fall to the bottom of the hole. Much of it fell on his own legs, cushioning the little sound. He had worked but a few minutes when taking a small root, he pulled down, a tiny hole appeared, and earth cascaded around him. Pistol ready, he waited for an instant to see if Cornish had heard him. There was no sound or movement, and he tugged at another root. More dirt cascaded around him. That time there was a muffled gasp and he heard pounding feet.
His gun was ready and it was all that saved him. Dave Cornish, his eyes wide and frightened, was staring down into the hole at him, gun in hand.
The man was petrified by astonishment. The man they thought had burned in the cabin below was coming up through the earth. Before Cornish could re
alize what was truly happening, Brad acted. The gun was ready. He shoved it up, and even as Cornish started from his shock, the six-gun bellowed.
The close confines of the hole made a terrific blast, and acrid fumes cut at Murphy’s nostrils. Cornish fell forward, and bracing his shoulders against the earth atop the hole, Brad shoved himself through. He scrambled out, rolling over flat.
ONE LOOK AT Dave Cornish was enough. The man was dead. He had been shot right through the heart. Excited shouts came from below. The shot, muffled by the earth, had reached them but dimly. Yet they were alarmed.
“Butcher!” Murphy yelled.
Schaum was walking toward the smoldering cabin, Moffitt a few feet behind him.
Butcher Schaum froze, terror had turned his face to an ugly mask as he raised his eyes.
He dropped a hand for a gun, and Brad Murphy whipped up his own. Shots stabbed into the hot still air, something struck his shoulder, and he staggered one step, then fired. Schaum swayed drunkenly, tried to get a gun up, and then Brad fired again.
Behind him, Asa Moffitt swept up a pistol and emptied it in a terror-stricken blast of fire. Then he turned and ran for the gully.
Remorselessly, Brad Murphy waited an instant, then fired. Once, twice! The outlaw and murderer fell, rolled over, and lay sprawled out on the lip of the gully.
Calmly, Brad Murphy reloaded. He found the paint horse standing not far away, and mounting, rode down to the smoldering ruins.
A few minutes of search and he found his gold. The bag had hit and slid down the bank. It was lying there covered partially by dirt, visible but not likely to attract attention.
Shaking his head, he swung into the saddle and turned the horse toward town.
“Horse,” he said, “you’re takin’ me home. I got to buy me a ranch for Ruth and my boy.…I reckon,” he added, “they’ll be right glad to see me.”
He turned the horse down the trail. The nearest town was thirty miles away. Behind him the smoke lifted slowly toward the sky where a buzzard circled lazily in the wavering heat. Gravel rattled, and the horse felt good between Brad’s legs, and he liked the heavy feeling of the gold.
Afterword by Beau L’Amour
LAST YEAR AT this time I thought that With These Hands would be our last collection of short fiction. I knew that there were a few stragglers, but as we did a careful inventory of what had been published we discovered more and more stories. Finally, we realized there were enough for one more collection. So here they are, both Louis’s first and last short stories, “Anything for a Pal” and “The Moon of the Trees Broken by Snow,” as well as a pair of WWII adventures, four westerns, a couple of football stories, and two crime tales. As far as I can tell, “From the Listening Hills,” and my favorite, “Sand Trap,” have never before been published.
I write this afterword with a strange mixture of feelings. We’ve brought you a great many new, hard to find, and sometimes fragmentary stories in the fifteen years since Louis’s death. In many ways I’ve enjoyed the process, yet at the same time I’m glad that it is nearing an end.
Is this the last new Louis L’Amour book? I don’t know. Are there more things we could publish? Yes, but I don’t know if, or exactly how, we should. The future will decide these and other questions.
There is always more to be found at our web site, louis lamour.com, where we offer a world of information, discussion forums, and photographs. For more of Louis’s writings, you can take a look at louislamourslost treasures.com. At the Lost Treasures site we are collecting articles, story outlines, incomplete short stories and novels, letters, journals, and notes covering everything from the innermost details of his most popular stories to his most outlandish and unmarketable ideas. Whenever possible I have added notes to bring this wide array of material into perspective. Also, our series of radio dramas can be heard on XM Satellite Radio, Armed Forces Radio, Cable Network Radio, and a selection of local stations that are posted on louislamour.com.
I want to take this final opportunity in print to thank some of the people who have helped us bring all of these stories to you and have helped me so much in sorting out the material for the Louis L’Amour Biography Project. First would be Paul O’Dell, who has assisted with everything from helping out after my father’s death to running our website and editing our radio shows; Jeanne Brown, who keeps the biography project from dissolving into chaos; Daphne Ashbrook, who just joined us in information processing; Howard Gale, our recording engineer; and Charles Van Eman, who has written audio adaptations and been our ace bloodhound on the biography. Of course, we never could have done any of it without my mother, Katherine L’Amour, and her assistant, Sonndra May.
Earlier generations of helpers include my sister, Angelique, Katherine and Gavin Doughtie, Mara Purl, Helen Swart, Trish Mahoney, Paula Bayers, John Barrymore III, Cathy Sandrich, Jordan Ladd, and Lynn Adams.
The team at Bantam Books has been a powerfully creative force behind Louis’s books since his death. We would like to thank everyone who has worked at Bantam for their continuing vision and hard work. Chief Executive Officers: Peter Olson, Erik Engstrom, Jack Hoeft, Alberto Vitale, Lou Wolfe, Oscar Dystel. Publishers: Irwyn Applebaum, Linda Grey, Marc Jaffe. Editors: Andrea Nicolay, Mike Shohl, Pat LoBrutto, Tom Dupree, Stuart Applebaum, Irwyn Applebaum, Marc Jaffe, Saul David. Art Directors: Jim Plumeri, Yook Louie, Len Leone. Publicity: Stuart Applebaum, Barb Burg, Chris Artis. Sales: Don Weisberg, George Fisher, Cynthia Lasky. Audio: Jenny Frost, Robert Allen, Orli Moscowitz, Christine McNamara, Helena Terbush, David Rapkin, Charles Potter. Corporate Development and New Media: Richard Sarnoff. Marketing: Betsy Hulsebosch. Royalties: Pauline James. Inventory Management: Ken Graff. Subsidiary Rights: Amanda Mecke, Sharon Swados. Legal Counsel: Heather Florence, Harriette Dorsen, Matthew Martin, Paula Brian, David Sanford. Continuity: Lisa Faith Phillips, Vladimir Damianov. Remainders: Kathy Garcia. Special Sales: Pam Romano, Anne Somlyo, Maureen Cosgrove.
Thank you all; readers, and workers in research and publishing both.
Beau L’Amour
About Louis L’Amour
“I think of myself in the oral tradition—
as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man
in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way
I’d like to be remembered as a storyteller.
A good storyteller.”
IT IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour publishe
d his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are nearly 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the best-selling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel), From the Listening Hills, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L’Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam Audio publishing.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L’Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life’s work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L’Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry the L’Amour publishing tradition forward.
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
Collection 2003 - From The Listening Hills (v5.0) Page 19