from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004)

by L'amour, Louis

  "Don't shoot, Cokey," Calva said suddenly. "Just knock him in the head and let the river do it. There's a farm up here on the hill."

  Suddenly, Ruth tried to leap from the car, but Calva caught her by the arm and jerked her back. Pat's face set grimly, but in that instant Raiss moved forward and brought the gun barrel down across his head in a vicious, sideswiping blow.

  An arrow of pain shot through him, and he stumbled, and almost went down. He lurched toward Raiss, and the gunman hit him again, and again. Then suddenly he felt himself falling, and something else hit him. He toppled off the bridge, and the dark water closed over his head.

  Hours later, it seemed, he opened his eyes. At first he was conscious of nothing but the throbbing pain in his head, the surging waves of pain that went all over him. Then slowly, he began to realize he was cold.

  He struggled, and something tore sharply at his arm. Then he realized where he was and what had happened. He was caught in a barbed-wire fence that extended across the river about three hundred yards below the bridge from which his body had been tumbled.

  Cautiously, he unfastened his clothes from the wire, and clinging to the fence, worked his way to shore. He walked up the bank, and then tumbled and lay flat upon his face in the grass. For a long time he lay still, then he sat up slowly.

  He had no idea of how much time had passed. It was still dark. They had, it seemed, tumbled him off the bridge for dead, not knowing about the fence. It was only a miracle that he hadn't gone down to stay before the barbs caught his clothing and held him above water.

  Gingerly, he ran his fingers along his scalp. It tingled with the pain of his touch, and he realized it was badly cut. He groped his way to his feet, and started toward the road. He remembered the farm they had said was up above. Almost blind with pain, he staggered along the road, his head throbbing.

  Ahead of him the fence opened, and he could see the black bulk of the farmhouse looming up through the night. Amid the fierce barking of a big shepherd dog, he lurched up to the door and pounded upon it.

  It opened suddenly. Pat Collins looked up and found himself staring into the wide, sleepy eyes of an elderly farmer.

  "Wha--what's goin' on here?" the farmer began. "What you mean--!"

  "Listen," Pat broke in suddenly. "I'm Pat Collins. You call the sheriff at Mercury an' tell him Raiss an' Calva waylaid my truck an' knocked me in the head. Tell him they got my wife. Tell him I think they went to The Cedars."

  The farmer, wide awake now, caught him by the arm as he lurched against the doorpost, "Come in here, Collins. You're bad hurt!"

  Almost before he realized it the farmer's wife had put some coffee before him and he was drinking it in great gulps. It made him feel better.

  "You got a car?" he demanded, as the farmer struggled to raise central. "I want to borrow a car."

  The farmer's wife went into the next room and he hurriedly pulled on the dry clothes she had brought him.

  "Please, I need help. You know me, I'm Pat Collins, and I drive for the Mercury Freighting Company, Dave Lyons will back me. If there's any damage to the car I'll pay."

  The farmer turned from the telephone. "Mary, get this young man my pistol and those extra shells, an' get the car key out of my pants pocket." He paused, and rang the phone desperately. Then he looked back at Collins. "I know you, son, I seen you down about the markets many a time. We read in the paper today about you witnessin' that killin'. I reckon they published that story too soon!"

  AS THE FARMER'S car roared to life, Pat could hear the man shouting into the phone, and knew he had reached Mercury and the sheriff. Coming up the hill from the river the memory of Dago John's old roadhouse at The Cedars had flashed across Pat's mind. A chance remark from one of the gunmen came to him now as he swung the coupe out on the road, and whirled off at top speed.

  It had only been a short time since they had slugged him and dropped him in the river. They would be expecting no pursuit, no danger.

  Two miles, three, four, five. Then he swung the car into a dark side road, and stopped. The lights had been turned off minutes before. Carefully, he checked the load in the old six-shooter, and with a dozen shells shaking loose in his pocket, he started down the road.

  His head throbbed painfully, but he felt surprisingly able. It wasn't for nothing that he had played football, boxed, and wrestled all his life.

  He reached the edge of the fence around the acres where stood the old roadhouse. The place had been deserted since prohibition days. Dago John had made this his headquarters at one time. Carefully, he crawled over the fence.

  Pat Collins was crouched against the wall before he saw the car parked in the garage behind the building. The door had been left open, as though they hadn't contemplated staying. Through a thin edge of light at the bottom of a window he could see what went on inside.

  Three men, Tony Calva, Cokey Raiss, and the white-faced gunman, were sitting at the table. Ruth was putting food on the table.

  Pat drew back from the window, and suddenly, his ear caught the tiniest sound as a foot scraped on gravel. He whirled just in time to see the dark shadow of a man loom up before him. He lashed out with a vicious right hand that slammed into the man's body, and he felt it give. Then Pat stepped in, crashing both hands to the chin in a pretty one-two that stretched the surprised gangster flat.

  Quickly, Pat dropped astride him and slugged him on the chin as hard as he could lay them in. Afraid the sound had attracted attention, he crawled to his feet, scooping the gunman's automatic as he got up. He opened the door.

  "Come on in, Red," the gunman said, without looking up, but Pat fired as he spoke, and the white-faced gangster froze in his chair.

  With an oath, Calva dropped to the floor, shooting as he fell. A bullet ripped through Pat's shirt, and another snapped against the wall behind his head and whined away across the room. Pat started across the room. Suddenly he was mad, mad clear through. Both guns were spouting fire, and he could see Raiss was on his feet, shooting back.

  Something struck Pat a vicious blow in the right shoulder, and his gun hand dropped to his side. But the left gun kept spouting fire, and Raiss sagged across the table, spilling the soup. Coolly, though his brain was afire, Pat fired again, and the body twitched. He turned drunkenly to see Calva lifting a tommy gun. Then Ruth suddenly stepped through the door and hurled a can of tomatoes that struck Calva on the hand.

  Pat felt his knees give way, and he was on the floor, but Calva was lifting the tommy gun again. Pat fired, and the gangster sagged forward.

  Collins lurched to his feet swaying dizzily. Far down the road he could hear the whine of police sirens, and he turned to stare at Ruth.

  What he saw instead was the short blocky gunman who had been in the car, the one that had shot down Petrone, and the gunman was looking at him with a twisted smile and had him covered.

  THEY FIRED AT the same instant, and even as he felt something pound his chest, he knew his own shot had missed. He lurched, but kept his feet, weaving. The heavyset man's face bobbed queerly, and he fired at it again. Then, coolly, Pat shoved a couple more shells into his pistol, hanging the gun in his limp right hand. He took the gun in his good left hand again, and then he saw that the other man was gone.

  He stared, astonished at the disappearance, and then his eyes wavered down and he saw the man lying on the floor.

  Suddenly the door burst open, and the police came pouring into the room.

  WHEN HE REGAINED consciousness he was lying on a hospital bed, and Ruth was sitting beside him.

  "All right?" she whispered. He nodded and took her hand. Pat grinned sleepily.

  -

  Murphy Plays His Hand

  BRAD MURPHY HAD been a prisoner in the box canyon for three months when he heard the yell.

  He jerked erect so suddenly that he dropped his gold pan, spilling its contents. Whirling about, he saw the three horsemen on the rim and he ran toward the cliff, shouting and waving his arms.

  One of
the men dismounted and came to the edge of the ninety-foot precipice.

  "What's the trouble?" he yelled.

  "Can't get out!" Murphy yelled. "Slide wiped out the trail to the rim. I been a prisoner here for months!"

  "Made a strike?" The man on the rim gestured toward the stream and the gold pan.

  Instinct made Brad hesitate.

  "No," he said cautiously. "Only a little color."

  The man walked back and then he returned to the cliff edge, knotting together the ends of two riatas. While he was doing that, Brad Murphy walked back to the camp and picked up his rifle. On a sudden hunch he thrust his pistol inside his shirt and under his belt. Then he picked up the sack of dust and nuggets. It wasn't a large sack, but it weighed forty pounds.

  When they got him to the rim, the man who had done the talking stared at the heavy sack, his eyes curious. He lifted his eyes to Brad's face, and the eyes were small, cruel, and sparkling with sardonic humor.

  "My name's Butch Schaum," he said quietly. "What's yourn?"

  "Murphy," Brad replied. "Brad Murphy."

  The thin-faced man on the buckskin jerked his head up and turned toward Brad.

  "You the Brad Murphy used to be in Cripple Creek?"

  Brad nodded. "Yeah, I was there for a spell. You're Asa Moffitt." His eyes shifted to the third man on the paint. "And you'll be Dave Cornish."

  "Know us all, do you?" Schaum said; his eyes flickered over Brad's height, taking in his great breadth of shoulder, the powerful hands. Then straying to the rifle.

  Murphy shrugged. "Who doesn't know the Schaum gang? You've been ridin' these hills for several years." He rubbed his hands on his pants. "Any of you got a smoke?"

  Schaum offered the makings. "Go on an' Dave can ride behind Asa," he said. "His horse'll carry double. I'll take the sack."

  "No." Brad looked up and his green eyes were steady, hard. "I'll do that myself."

  "Be too heavy on the hoss," Schaum declared.

  "I'll carry the sack," Murphy replied, "and walk."

  "Ain't necessary," Moffitt interrupted. "My hoss'll take the weight. It's only six miles to the shack."

  GRIMLY BRAD MURPHY kept his rifle in his hands. They didn't know it was empty. They didn't know he had run out of the heavy .40-65 ammunition over two months ago.

  Too much was known about Butcher Schaum. The man and his henchmen were cruel as Yaquis. They were killers, outlaws of the worst sort. Three years ago they had held up the bank in Silver City, killing the cashier and escaping with several thousand dollars. They killed one of the posse that followed them. In Tascosa, Dave Cornish had shot a man over a horse.

  In Cripple Creek, where Brad Murphy had known Asa Moffitt, Asa was suspected of a series of robberies and killings. Escape from the canyon was now a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire. These men were not wondering what was in the sack; the only thing that could be that heavy was gold.

  That gold would more than pay Brad for the three lonely months in the box canyon. It was gold enough to buy the ranch he wanted, and to stock it. His stake, the one he had sought for so long, was here. Now he and Ruth would have their own home. And a home for their son as well.

  He suffered from no illusions. These men would kill him in an instant for his gold. They had delayed this long only because they had him, helpless, or practically so. Of course, there had been Asa's manner when he mentioned his name. Asa Moffitt knew about Brad Murphy. And Moffitt's queer reaction at the mention of his name had been a warning to Schaum.

  "Ever have any more trouble with the Howells crowd?" Moffitt asked.

  It was, Brad knew, a means of telling Schaum who he was. They would remember. His gunfight with the three Howells boys had made history.

  "A little," he replied shortly. "Two cousins of theirs follered me to Tonopah."

  "What happened?" Butcher Schaum demanded. Moffitt's question had told him at once who Murphy was.

  "They trailed me to a water hole near the Dead Mountains. I planted 'em there."

  Butcher Schaum felt a little chill go through him at the calm, easy way in which Brad Murphy spoke. Schaum was ruthless, coldblooded, and a killer. Moreover, he was fast enough. But he had never killed three men in one gun battle, nor even two.

  For this reason, nobody was going to move carelessly around Murphy. After all, Murphy knew who Schaum was. He knew what to expect. Getting that gold wasn't going to be that simple. Getting it would mean killing Brad Murphy.

  THE SHACK WAS tucked in a cozy niche in the rocks. The level of the plateau broke off sharply, and under the lip of rock, the shack was built of rocks and crude mortar. It was not easy to approach, hard to get away from, and was built for defense. Any posse attacking the Schaum gang here could figure on losing some men. You couldn't come within fifty yards of it without being under cover of a rifle. And that approach was from only one direction.

  They swung down, and Butcher noted how carefully Brad kept them in front of him. He did it smoothly, bringing a grudging admiration to Butcher's eyes. This hombre was no fool. The sack never left his hand.

  He followed them into the cabin.

  "I'd like a horse," he said. "My wife and kid must think I'm dead. This is the longest I've been away."

  "Too late to travel now," Cornish said. "That trail's plumb dangerous in the dark. We'll get a horse for you in the mornin'."

  HIS RIFLE BESIDE him, Brad sat at the table as Moffitt went about getting supper. The sack of gold lay on the floor at Brad's side.

  "How do we know you won't tell the law where we're holed up?" Cornish demanded.

  "You know better'n that," Murphy replied shortly. "You boys gave me a hand. I never--" he added coolly, "bother nobody that don't bother me."

  It was a warning, flat, cold, plain as the rocky ridge that lined the distant sky. They took it, sitting very still. Moffitt put some beans and bacon on the table and several slabs of steak.

  Brad Murphy had chosen a seat that kept his back to the wall. It had been a casual move, but one that brought a hard gleam to Asa Moffitt's eyes. His thin, cruel face betrayed no hint of what he was thinking, but he knew, even better than the others, what they were facing.

  Idly, they gossiped about the range, but when the meal was over, Butcher looked up from under his thick black brows.

  "How about some poker?" he asked. "Just to pass the time."

  Cornish brought over a pack of cards and shuffled. Murphy cut, and they dealt. They played casually, almost carelessly. They had been playing for almost an hour, with luck seesawing back and forth, when Asa suddenly got up. "How about some coffee?" he said.

  Brad had just drawn two cards, and he looked up only as Asa was putting Brad's rifle in the rack.

  "I'll just set this rifle out of the way," he said, with a malicious gleam in his eye. "I reckon you won't be needin' it."

  Schaum chuckled, deep in his throat. He won a small pot, and his eyes were bright and hungry as he looked at Brad Murphy.

  "You fellows have played a lot of poker," Brad drawled. Coolly, he began rolling a smoke. "Ain't never wise to call unless you're pretty sure what the other feller's holdin'."

  Cornish stared at him. "What do you mean by that?" he asked sharply.

  "Me?" Brad looked surprised. "Nothin' but what I say. Only," he added, "it'd sure make a man feel mighty silly if he figured an hombre had a couple of deuces, then called and found him holdin' a full house."

  Butcher Schaum's eyes were cautious. Somehow, Murphy was too confident, too sure of himself. Maybe it would be easier to get the gold by winning it over the table. He fumbled the cards in his big hands, then dealt.

  Brad Murphy, his eyes half closed, heard the flick of the card as it slipped off the bottom of the deck. He smiled at Schaum, just smiled, and Butcher Schaum felt something turn over inside of him. He was a hard man, but in Murphy's place he would have been scared. He knew it. Only once he had been cornered like that, and he had been scared. Luckily, some friends arrived to save him. This homb
re wasn't scared. He was cool, amused.

  Schaum picked up his cards, glanced at them, and straightened in his chair, his face slowly going red under the deep tan. The three kings he had slipped from the bottom of the deck, all marked by his thumbnail, had suddenly become deuces!

  Trying to be casual, he turned a card in his hand. The mark was there!

  He looked up, and Brad Murphy was smiling at him, smiling with a hard humor. Brad Murphy had dealt last. Obviously, he had detected the marks and added his own, to the deuces.

  Suddenly, Butcher Schaum knew there was going to be a showdown. He wasn't going to wait. To the devil with it!

  He tossed his cards onto the table. Brad Murphy looked up, surprised.

  "Murphy." Schaum leaned over the table. "You figger to be a purty smart hombre. You know us boys ain't no lily-fingered cowpokes. We been owl-hootin' for a long time now. You got a lot of gold in that poke. We want a split."

  Brad smiled. "I'm right grateful," he said, "for you pullin' me out of that canyon, and I wouldn't mind payin' you for a horse. But the future of this gold has already been accounted for, and I ain't makin' any sort of split."

  He shifted a little in the seat, turning his body. One hand placed two double eagles on the table, taken from the pocket of his jeans. He then shifted his winnings from the game to the same pile. "Now, if you boys want to let me have the horse," he said, "I'll split the breeze out of here. Like I say, it's been a long time since I seen my wife and kid."

  "You play a pretty good hand of poker," Schaum said, "but it's you that's bucking a full house. Asa's over there by the door. Yore rifle's gone. Cornish and me here, we figure we're in a good spot ourselves. It's three to one, and them ain't good odds for you."

  "No," Brad admitted, "they ain't. Specially with Asa off on my side like that. The odds are right bad, I reckon. Almost," he added, "as bad as when the Howells boys tried me."

  He smiled at Schaum. "There was three of them, too."

  "Split your poke," Schaum said. "Ten pounds o' that for each of us. That's plenty of a stake."