Collection 1995 - Valley Of The Sun (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “And me,” Kim said. “Don’t forget me.”

  “Yuh’re an awful fool, Hoyt,” Ward McQueen said suddenly. “Why don’t yuh ask Naify what he did with the money he took off Dan Kermitt.”

  Hoyt’s eyes suddenly blazed up. “Naify, did yuh get that fifty thousand?”

  “Fifty thousand?” Stark incredulity rang in Red Naify’s voice. “Why, I only got sixty dollars!” Suddenly his eyes gleamed. “Boss, he’s got it! He’s got it right there in his pocket!”

  Iver Hoyt smiled suddenly. “So, we won’t lose after all! Boys, come in!”

  There was a sound of movement, and four more men stepped into the circle of light. One of them tossed a bundle of brush on the fire, and it blazed up.

  “Think yuh’re pretty smart, don’t yuh, Hoyt?” McQueen said quietly. “Yuh engineered this whole steal, didn’t yuh?”

  “Of course,” Hoyt admitted proudly. “We stole old Kermitt blind up in Montana. He was too fresh from the East to know what was happenin’ to him. Then he found us that night and I had to kill him.”

  Suddenly a new voice sounded. “You four back up against the wagon and stay out of this. I’ve got a double-barrel shotgun here, and if there is one move out of you, I’ll let you have both barrels!”

  * * *

  RUTH KERMITT STOOD there. Tall, splendid in the firelight, she looked like a portrait of all the pioneer women of any age. The shotgun she held was steady and she waved the four back.

  “I’ll second that motion, ma’am,” Bud Fox said quietly, “with a six-gun!”

  Baldy spoke suddenly and his voice drawled.

  “This is goin’ to be pretty. Real pretty,” he said. “Hoyt, yuh know who this ranny is yuh’re talkin’ to? This here’s Ward McQueen. Think back a ways. Where’d yuh hear that name afore?”

  Baldy paused, and he saw a frown appear on Iver Hoyt’s face.

  “Ward, yuh had a bosom friend in Larry White, didn’t yuh?” he said to McQueen then. “Well, Iver Hoyt’s full name is Iver Hoyt Harris!”

  “Ike Harris!” Ward McQueen’s face suddenly went stone cold. “Kim,” he said suddenly, and his voice rang loud, “as a favor, let me have them both! Now!”

  It was Hoyt who moved first. At the mention of Larry White’s name, his face went dead pale, and his hand, twitching nervously, shot down for his gun.

  McQueen’s six-guns seemed to leap from their holsters, spewing jagged darts of fire. Hoyt, caught full in the chest by a leaden slug, was smashed back to his heels, and then another slug caught him in the face, and another in the throat.

  Coolly, ignoring Red Naify, he poured fire into the killer of his friend. Then he took one swinging step, bringing himself around to face Naify.

  Red, a leer on his face, was waiting.

  “Yuh dirty coyote!” he snarled.

  Both men’s guns belched flame. Red swayed on his feet, and then Ward McQueen stepped forward, firing as coolly as though on a target range. He stepped again, and each time his foot planted, his guns roared. Smashed back by the heavy slugs Red Naify staggered, then toppled to his knees.

  His face a bloody mess from a bullet that had burned a hole through the right side of his face below the eye, he lifted his gun and fired again. The bullet hit McQueen and he staggered, but bracing himself, he brought one gun down and triggered it again. The dart of fire seemed almost to touch Red’s face, and he toppled over on his face in the dust, his gun belching one last grass-cutting shot as his fist closed in agony.

  Ward McQueen staggered a little and then, stooping with great care, picked up his hat.

  “The devil,” he said, “only three bullet holes! Wyatt Earp had five after his battle with Curly Bill’s gang at the water hole.”

  Ruth Kermitt ran to his side. “You’re hurt! Oh, you’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

  He turned to look at her, and then suddenly everything faded out.

  When he opened his eyes again it was morning. Ruth sat beside him, her eyes heavy with weariness. She put a cool cloth on his forehead and wiped his face off with another.

  “You must lie still,” she told him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “Of course, if yuh say so, ma’am,” he assured her. “I’ll lay right quiet.”

  Baldy Jackson looked at him and snorted.

  “Look at that, would yuh!” he exploded. “And that’s the ranny crawled three miles with seven holes in him after his Galeyville fight! Just goes to show yuh what a woman’ll do to a man!”

  WHEN A TEXAN TAKES OVER

  * * *

  WHEN MATT RYAN saw the cattle tracks on Mocking Bird, he swung his horse over under the trees and studied the terrain with a careful eye. For those cattle tracks meant rustlers were raiding the KY range.

  For a generation the big KY spread had been the law in the Slumbering Hill country, but now the old man was dying and the wolves were coming out of the breaks to tear at the body of the ranch.

  And there was nobody to stop them, nobody to step into the big tracks old Tom Hitch had made, nobody to keep law in the hills now that old Tom was dying. He had built an empire of land and cattle, but he had also brought law into the outlaw country, brought schools and a post office, and the beginnings of thriving settlement.

  But they had never given up, not Indian Kelly nor Lee Dunn. They’d waited back in the hills, bitter with their own poison, waiting for the old man to die.

  All the people in the Slumbering Hill country knew it, and they had looked to Fred Hitch, the old man’s adopted son, to take up the job when the old man put it, down. But Fred was an easygoing young man who liked to drink and gamble. And he spent too much time with Dutch Gerlach, the KY foreman…and who had a good word for Dutch?

  “This is the turn, Red,” Ryan told his horse. “They know the old man will never ride again, so they have started rustling.”

  It was not just a few head…there must have been forty or more in this bunch, and no attempt to cover the trail.

  In itself that was strange. It seemed they were not even worried about what Gerlach might do…and what would he do? Dutch Gerlach was a tough man. He had shown it more than once. Of course, nobody wanted any part of Lee Dunn, not even Gerlach.

  Matt Ryan rode on, but kept a good background behind him. He had no desire to skyline himself with rustlers around.

  For three months now he had been working his placer claim in Pima Canyon, just over the ridge from Mocking Bird. He had a good show of color and with persistent work he made better than cowhand’s wages. But lately he was doing better. Twice in the past month he had struck pockets that netted him nearly a hundred dollars each. The result was that his last month had brought him in the neighborhood of three hundred in gold.

  Matt Ryan knew the hills and the men who rode them. None of them knew him. Matt had a streak of Indian in his nature if not in his blood, and he knew how to leave no trail and travel without being seen. He was around, but not obvious.

  They knew somebody was there, but who and why or where they did not know, and he liked that way. Once a month he came out of the hills for supplies, but he never rode to the same places. Only this time he was coming back to Hanna’s Stage Station. He told himself it was because it was close, but down inside he knew it was because of Kitty Hanna.

  She was something who stepped out of your dreams, a lovely girl of twenty in a cotton dress and with carefully done hair, large, dark eyes, and a mouth that would set a man to being restless.…

  * * *

  MATT RYAN HAD stopped by two months before to eat a woman-cooked meal and to buy supplies, and he had lingered over his coffee.

  He was a tall, wide-shouldered young man with a slim, long-legged body and hands that swung wide of his narrow hips. He had a wedge-shaped face and green eyes, and a way of looking at you with faint humor in his eyes.

  He carried a gun, but he carried it tucked into his waistband, and he carried a Winchester that he never left on his saddle.

  Nobody knew him around the Sl
umbering Hills, nobody knew him anywhere this side of Texas…they remembered him there. His name was a legend on the Nueces.

  Big Red ambled on down the trail and Matt watched the country and studied the cattle tracks. He would remember those horse tracks, too. Finally the cow tracks turned off into a long valley, and when he sat his horse he could see dust off over there where Thumb Butte lifted against the sky.

  Indian Kelly…not Dunn this time, although Dunn might have given the word.

  Kitty was pouring coffee when he came in and she felt her heart give a tiny leap. It had only been once, but she remembered, for when his eyes touched her that time, it made her feel the woman in her…a quick excitement such as she felt now.

  Why was that? This man whom she knew nothing about? Why should he make her feel this way?

  He put his hat on a hook and sat down, and she saw that his hair was freshly combed and still damp from the water he had used. That meant he had stopped back there by the creek…it was unlike a drifting cowhand, or had it been for her?

  When he looked up she knew it had, and she liked the smile he had and the way his eyes could not seem to leave her face. “Eggs,” he said, “about four of them, and whatever vegetable you have, and a slab of beef. I’m a hungry man.”

  She filled his cup, standing very close to him, and she saw the red mount under his dark skin, and when she moved away it was slowly, and there was a little something in her walk. Had her father seen it, he would have been angry, but this man would not be angry, and he would know it was for him.

  Dutch Gerlach came in, a big, brawny man with bold eyes and careless hands. He had a wide, flat face and a confident, knowing manner that she hated. Fred Hitch was with him.

  They looked at Ryan, then looked again. He was that sort of man, and something about him irritated Gerlach. But the big foreman of the KY said nothing. He was watching Kitty.

  * * *

  GERLACH SEATED HIMSELF and shoved his hat back on his head. When his meal was put before him, he began to eat, his eyes following the girl. Fred seemed preoccupied; he kept scowling a little, and he said something under his breath to Dutch.

  Gerlach looked over at Matt Ryan. “Ain’t seen you around before,” he said.

  Ryan merely glanced at him, and continued eating. The eggs tasted good, and the coffee was better than his own.

  “Hear what I said?” Gerlach demanded.

  Ryan looked up, studying the bigger man calmly. “Yes,” he said, “and the remark didn’t require an answer.”

  Gerlach started to speak, then devoted himself to his food.

  “That bay horse yours?” Fred Hitch asked suddenly.

  Ryan nodded…they had seen the horse, then? That was one trouble with Big Red, he was a blood bay, and he stood out. It would have been better to have a dun or a buckskin…even a black.

  “It’s mine,” he said.

  Yet their curiosity and Fred’s uneasiness puzzled him. Why should Fred be bothered by him?

  “Don’t take to strangers around here,” Gerlach said suddenly. “You move on.”

  Ryan said nothing, although he felt something inside of him grow poised and waiting. No trouble, Matt, he warned himself, not here…

  “Hear me?” Gerlach’s voice rose. “We’ve missed some cows.”

  Kitty had come to the door, and her father was behind her. Hanna was a peace-loving man, but a stern one.

  “I heard you,” Ryan replied quietly, “an’ if you’ve missed cows, ride toward Thumb Butte.”

  Fred Hitch jerked as if he had been slapped, and Gerlach’s face went slowly dark. His eyes had been truculent, now they were cautious, studying. “What’s that mean?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Ain’t that where Indian Kelly hangs out?” Ryan asked mildly.

  “You seem to know.” Gerlach was suddenly cold. “I figure you’re a rustler your own self!”

  It was fighting talk, gun talk. Matt Ryan made no move. He forked up some more eggs. “One man’s opinion,” he said. “But what would make you think that? You’ve never seen me with a rope on my saddle, you’ve never even seen me before. You don’t know where I’m from or where I’m going.”

  All this was true.…Gerlach hesitated, wanting trouble, yet disturbed by the other man’s seeming calm. He had no gun in sight, and his rifle leaned against the wall. Still, you couldn’t tell.

  He snorted and sat down, showing his contempt for a man who would take an insult without fighting, yet he was uneasy.

  Matt glanced up to meet Kitty’s eyes. She turned her face deliberately, and he flushed. She thought him a coward.

  He lingered over his coffee, wanting a word with her, and finally the others left. He looked up when the door closed behind them. “There’s a dance at Rock Springs,” he said suddenly. “Would you go with me?”

  She hesitated, then stiffened a little. “I’d be afraid to,” she said. “Somebody might call you a coward in front of people.”

  Scarcely were the words out than she was sorry she had said them. His face went white and she felt a queer little pang and half turned toward him. He got up slowly, his face very stiff. Then he walked to the door. There he turned. “You find it so easy to see a man die?” he asked, and the words were shocking in their tone and in the something that spoke from his eyes.

  * * *

  HE WENT OUT, and the door closed, and Hanna said to his daughter, “I don’t want you speakin’ to men like that. Nor do I want you goin’ dancin’ with strangers. Just the same,” he added, “I’d say that man was not afraid.”

  She thought about it and her father’s words remained with her. She held them tenderly, for she wanted to believe in them, yet she had seen the stranger take a deliberate insult without a show of resentment. Men had killed for less. Of course, she had not wanted that. (How he could have shown resentment without its leading to bloodshed she did not ask herself.)

  She was at the window when he rode out of town, and was turning away from it when the side door opened and a slender, narrow-faced man stood there. She felt a start of fear. This was not the first time she had seen Lee Dunn, and there was something about him that frightened her.

  “Who was that?” he demanded. “That man who walked out?”

  “I…I don’t know,” she said, and then was surprised to realize that it was the truth. She knew nothing about him, and she had seen him but twice.

  Lee Dunn was a narrow, knifelike man with a bitter mouth that never smiled, but there was a certain arresting quality about him so that even when you knew who and what he was, you respected him. His manner was old-fashioned and courteous, but without graciousness. It was rumored that he had killed a dozen men…and he had killed two here at the Springs.

  Kitty rode to the party in a buckboard with Fred Hitch. And she was dancing her third dance when she looked up and saw the stranger standing at the floor’s edge. He wore a dark red shirt that was freshly laundered and a black string tie. There was a short jacket of buckskin, Mexican style, over the shirt. His black boots were freshly polished.

  She saw Dutch Gerlach watching him, and was aware of worry that there would be trouble. Yet two dances passed, one of them with Dutch, whom she hated but could not avoid without one dance, and he did not come near her. Someone mentioned his name. Matt Ryan…she liked the sound.

  Lee Dunn came into the room and paused near Gerlach. She thought she saw Dutch’s lips move, but he did not turn his head. But that was silly…why would the foreman of the KY talk to a rustler?

  When she looked again Matt Ryan was gone…and he had not even asked her for a dance.

  Something seemed to have gone from the lights, and her feet lost their quickness. Suddenly, she knew she wanted to go home.…

  * * *

  Matt Ryan was riding fast. He had seen Dunn come into the room and turned at once and slipped out through the crowd. What was to be done had to be done fast, and he went at it.

  The big bay was fast, and he held the pace well. An hour after leav
ing the dance Ryan swung the big horse into the KY ranch yard and got down. With only a glance at the darkened bunkhouse he crossed to the big house and went in.

  He had not stopped to knock, and he startled the big Mexican woman who was dusting a table. “Where’s Tom?” he demanded.

  “You can’t see him.” The woman barred his way, her fat face growing hard. “He sick.”

  “I’ll see him. Show me to him.”

  “I’ll not! You stop or I’ll—”

  “Maria!” The voice was a husky roar. “Who’s out there?”

  Matt Ryan walked by her to the bedroom doorway. He stopped there, looking in at the old man.

  Tom Hitch had been a giant. He was a shell now, bedridden and old, but with a flare of ancient fire in his eyes.

  “You don’t know me, Hitch,” Ryan said, “but it’s time you did. You’re losin’ cattle.”

  Before the old man could speak, Ryan broke in, talking swiftly. He told about forty head that had left the day before, in broad daylight. He told of other, smaller herds. He told of the rustlers’ growing boldness, of Lee Dunn at the dance, of Indian Kelly riding down to Hanna’s Stage Station.

  “They wouldn’t dare!” The old man’s voice was heavy with scorn. “I learnt ’em manners!”

  “And now you’re abed,” Matt Ryan said roughly. “And you’ve a fool and an outlaw for an adopted son, a gunman for a foreman.”

  Hitch was suddenly quiet. His shrewd old eyes studied Ryan. “What’s in you, man? What d’ you want?”

  “You’re down, Hitch. Maybe you’ll get up, maybe not. But what happens to the country? What happens to law an’ order when—”

  Somebody moved behind him and he turned to see Fred Hitch standing there with Dutch Gerlach. Fred was frightened, but there was ugliness in the foreman’s face.

  “You invite this gent here?” Dutch asked thickly.