Collection 1981 - Buckskin Run (v5.0)

  Contents

  Title page

  Death Due Us Part

  Dedication

  Introduction

  THE GHOSTS OF BUCKSKIN RUN

  Historical Note: MRS. PAIGE

  NO TROUBLE FOR THE CACTUS KID

  Historical Note: Colonel ALBERT PFEIFFER

  HORSE HEAVEN

  Historical Note: CLAY ALLISON

  SQUATTERS ON THE LONETREE

  Historical Note: LONG HENRY THOMPSON

  JACKSON OF HORNTOWN

  Historical Note: TASCOSA

  THERE’S ALWAYS A TRAIL

  Historical Note: THE CARLISLE-KING FIGHT

  DOWN THE POGONIP TRAIL

  Historical Note: GABRIEL VS. PHY

  WHAT GOLD DOES TO A MAN

  About the Author

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  Copyright Page

  DEATH DUE US PART

  * * *

  A MAN LAY flat in the middle of the trail, blood staining the back of his vest. Beside his right hand lay a six-shooter.

  To the left of the road were four riders, sitting their horses with hands uplifted. Facing the four was a young man with dark, wavy hair. There was an empty holster on his hip and he held two guns in his hands.

  From inside the stagecoach, Loma stifled a cry. “Rod!” she gasped. “Rod Morgan!”

  Her voice was low, but Jed Blue overheard. “Is that your man?” he asked.

  She nodded, unable to speak. It was true then, she thought. He was a killer! He had just shot that man.

  Loma Day drew back into the stage, her hands to her face. Horror filled her being. That limp, still body! Rod Morgan had killed him! The stage started to roll.

  “Hey?” Blue caught at Loma’s arm. “Ain’t you even goin’ to call to him? Ain’t you goin’ to let him know you’re here?”

  “No! Don’t tell him! Please don’t!”

  Blue leaned back, shaking his head admiringly. “Handy, right handy! That gent who was down in the road was drilled plumb center!”

  Loma did not hear him. Rod! Her Rod! A killer!

  To Jack Evans

  Introduction

  * * *

  THE STORIES IN this collection are fiction based upon a knowledge of events of a similar nature. The Historical Notes are exactly that, bits of western violence lifted from the day-by-day lives of western people. It was not, as many have surmised, a lawless time. The duel was, in many quarters of the world, still the accepted method of settling disputes. However, at the time of the gun battles related here the days of the Code Duello were at an end.

  Often I have been asked if such gunfights actually took place, for there are those who believe such stories are the stuff of fiction, or invented by makers of motion pictures. Several writers have attempted to list the gunfighters and the gunfights, and one author has listed 587 gun battles, and has done it well, but there were at least four times that many in the period from 1850 to 1910. None of the gun battles in my historical notes, for example, are included in that book. To list them all is difficult, if not impossible, yet we do have the files of old newspapers, court records, coroners’ reports, and diaries, which are helpful.

  It is well to mention, however, that ninety percent of the gun battles took place in either saloons, the red light district, or out on the range, having little or no effect on the daily lives of most of the citizens.

  None of the Historical Notes are intended to have any connection with the stories I have written. They are included rather as a part of the whole picture I am presenting in my books, and to indicate that such things were, in fact, happening.

  Gunplay did not enter the life of every citizen, although a time might come when any man might be called upon to defend himself. The law, if present, was often beyond call, even as now. Nor was the western man inclined to call for help. He who settled his own difficulties was most respected.

  The gunfighter was not inclined to wear a gun slung low on his hip, and swagger about town. That was for the tinhorns or the would-bes. More often than not he dressed in a conservative manner and went about his business quietly and with dignity. In fact, in one of the most noted gun duels, where two of the top operators in the field met, both men drew not from low-slung holsters but from their hip pockets. This was the fight in Fort Worth between Long-Haired Jim Courtright and Luke Short.

  Television and motion pictures have made everyone familiar with the names of Billy the Kid, Wild Bill Hickok, Bat Masterson, and Wyatt Earp, so I have purposely avoided them. In their time there were at least a hundred men as well, if not better, known.

  Various cliches have arisen from one source or another, and one that resulted from its use in the Spanish-American War is the notion that “a .45 will always knock a man down.” Don’t you believe it. I could relate at least a hundred cases where men took .45-caliber bullets and kept right on coming.

  Another cliche of motion pictures and television is the gunman or outlaw who, alone or with a gang, terrorizes a western town. One has to remember that the period of the gunfighter was in the years of the mining booms and cattle drives following the Civil War. Several hundred thousand men went west, from the army or civilian life, who had been using guns. Many were veterans of the Union or Confederate armies, and they not only could shoot but had been shooting. Others were veterans of Indian fighting, and a large percentage of those who came west had hunted meat for the table. They knew just as much about guns and had used them as much or more than any pack of ratty outlaws who came down the pike. And they weren’t about to take any nonsense.

  An illustration: In Northfield, Minnesota a bunch of farmers and businessmen shot the Jesse James gang almost out of existence, and in Coffeyville, Kansas the local citizenry wiped out the Doolin-Dalton gang. Emmett Dalton survived to sell real estate in Los Angeles, but he was carried from the field pretty well ballasted with buckshot. One could list a dozen more such occasions.

  All this was but one aspect of a varied picture, for most people worked hard and for long hours. Social activity for families and many others centered around the churches, although there were dances, box suppers, horse races, as well as foot races (a very popular activity), and some towns such as Dodge City had both band concerts and baseball games. Often there were prize fights. Occasionally traveling groups of actors would present their shows.

  Court sessions were eagerly awaited for the drama they offered, and certain trial lawyers had greater followings than any matinee idol. The same was true of revival ministers who preached the gospel in small western towns. Many of those in the audience came more to hear his presentation than for the Holy Word, a fact of which he was usually aware.

  THE GHOSTS OF BUCKSKIN RUN

  FOR TWO DAYS they had seen no other traveler, not even a solitary cowhand or an Indian. There had been the usual stops to change teams, an overnight layover at Weston’s ranch, but no other break in the monotony of the journey.

  There was no comfort in the west-bound stage. The four passengers alternately dozed or stared miserably at the unchanging desert, dancing with heat waves.

  No breeze sent a shaft of coolness through the afternoon’s heavy heat. Aloma Day, bound for Cordova, a tiny cowtown thirty miles further along the trail, felt stifled and unhappy. Her heavy dress was hot, and she knew her hair “looked a fright.”

  The jolting of the heavy coach bouncing over the rocky, ungraded road had settled a thin mantle of dust over her clothes and skin. The handkerchief with which she occasionally touched her cheeks and brow had long since become merely a miserable wad of damp cloth.

  Across from her Em Shipton, proprietor of Cordova’s rooming and boarding establishment,
perspired, fanned, and dozed. Occasionally she glanced with exasperation at Aloma’s trim figure, for to her the girl seemed unreasonably cool and immaculate. Em Shipton resembled a barrel with ruffles.

  Mark Brewer, cattle buyer, touched his mustache thoughtfully and looked again at the girl in the opposite corner of the stage. She was, he decided, almost beautiful. Possibly her mouth was a trifle wide, but her lips were lovely, and she laughed easily.

  “I hope,” he ventured suddenly, “you decide to stay with us, Miss Day. I am sure the people of Cordova will do all they can to make your visit comfortable.”

  “Oh, but I shall stay! I am going to make my home there.”

  “Oh? You have relatives there?”

  “No,” she smiled, “I am to be married there.”

  The smile left his eyes, yet hovered politely about his lips. “I see. No doubt I know the lucky fellow. Cordova is not a large town.”

  Loma hesitated. The assurance with which she decided upon this trip had faced with the miles. It had been a long time since she had seen Rod Morgan, and the least she could have done was to await a reply from him. Yet there was no place in which to wait. Her aunt had died, and they had no friends in Richmond. She had money now for the trip. Six weeks or a month later she might have used it all. Her decision had been instantly made, but the closer she came to Cordova the more uncertain she felt.

  She looked at Brewer. “Then you probably know him. His name is Roderick Morgan.”

  Em Shipton stiffened, and Mark Brewer’s lips tightened. They exchanged a quick, astonished glance. Alarmed at their reaction, Loma glanced quickly from one to the other.

  “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Em Shipton had never been tactful. “I should say there is! Rod Morgan is an insufferable person! What can you be thinking of to come all this way to marry a man like that?”

  “Please, Em,” Brewer interrupted. “Remember, you are speaking of Miss Day’s fiancé. Of course, I must admit it is something of a shock. How long since you have seen him, Miss Day?”

  “Two years.” She felt faint, frightened. What was wrong? What had Rod done? Why did they—

  All through her aunt’s long illness, Rod’s love for her had been the rock to which she clung, it had been the one solid thing in a crumbling world. He had always been the one to whom she knew she could turn.

  “That explains it, then,” Brewer said, sympathetically. “A lot can happen in two years. You haven’t been told, I presume, of the murders in Buckskin Run?”

  “No. What is Buckskin Run?”

  “It’s a stream, you know. Locally, it is the term used to designate the canyon through which the stream runs, as well as the stream itself. The stream is clear and cold, and it heads far back in the mountains, but the canyon is rather a strange, mysterious sort of place, which all decent people avoid like the plague. For years the place has been considered haunted, and there are unexplained circumstances. Then Rod Morgan moved into the canyon and built a cabin there.”

  “You—you spoke of murders?”

  “Yes, I certainly did. About a year ago Morgan had trouble with a man named Ad Tolbert. A few days later a cowhand found Tolbert’s body not far from Morgan’s cabin. He had been shot in the back.”

  “And that was only one of them!” Em Shipton declared. “Tell her about the pack peddler.”

  “His name was Ned Weisl. He was a harmless old fellow who had been peddling around the country for years. On every trip he went into Buckskin Run, and that seemed strange, because until Morgan moved there nobody lived in the Run country. He had some wild story he told about gold in Buckskin Run, some gold buried there. About a month ago they found his body, too. And he had been shot in the back.”

  “You mark my words!” Em Shipton declared. “That Rod Morgan’s behind it all!”

  The fourth passenger, a bearded man, spoke for the first time, “It appears to me that you’re condemning this young man without much reason. Has anybody seen him shoot anybody?”

  “Who would go into that awful place? Everybody knows it’s haunted. We warned young Morgan about it, but he was too smart, a know-it-all. He said all the talk about ghosts was silly, and even if there were ghosts he’d make them feel at home!

  “We thought it was strange, him going into that dark, lonely place! No wonder. He’s deep, he is! With a sight of crime behind him, too!”

  “That’s not true!” Loma said. “I’ve known Rod Morgan for years. There isn’t a nicer boy anywhere.”

  Em Shipton’s features stiffened with anger. A dictator in her own little world, she resented any contradiction of her opinions.

  “I reckon, young lady, you’ve a lot to learn, and you’ll learn it soon, mark my words!”

  “There is something to what Mrs. Shipton says,” Brewer commented. “Morgan does have a bad reputation around Cordova. He was offered a good riding job by Henry Childs when he first arrived, but he refused it. Childs is a pioneer, and the wealthiest and most respected man in the country. When a drifter like Morgan refused such a job it aroused suspicion. Why would a man want to live in that canyon alone, when he could have a good job with Childs?”

  “Maybe he simply wants to be independent. Maybe he wants to build his own ranch,” the bearded man suggested. “A man never gets anywhere working for the other man.”

  Mark Brewer ignored the comment. “That canyon has always had an evil reputation. Vanishing wagon trains, mysterious deaths, and even the Indians avoid the place.”

  He paused. “You’ve only one life to live, Miss Day, so why don’t you wait a few days and make some inquiries before you commit yourself? After all, you do admit you haven’t seen the man for two years.”

  Aloma Day stared out over the desert. She was angry, but she was frightened, also. What was she getting into? She knew Rod, but two years is a long time, and people change. So much could have happened.

  He had gone west to earn money so they could be married, and it seemed unlikely he would think of building a home for her in a haunted valley. He was, she knew, inclined to be hot-headed and impulsive.

  But murder? How could she believe that of him?

  “It doesn’t make a man a murderer because he lives in a nice little valley like Buckskin Run,” the bearded man said. “You make your inquiries, ma’am, that’s a sensible suggestion, but don’t take nobody’s word on a man on evidence like that. Buckskin Run is a pretty little valley.”

  Mark Brewer gave the man his full attention for the first time. “What do you know about Buckskin Run? Everybody agrees it’s a dangerous place.”

  “Nonsense! I’ve been through it more than once. I went through that valley years ago, before your man Childs was even out here.

  “Pioneer, is he? I never heard of him. There wasn’t a ranch in the country when I first rode in here. As far as Indians are concerned, Buckskin Run was medicine ground. That’s why they never went there.”

  “How do you explain the things that have happened there?”

  “I don’t explain ’em. There’s been killings all over the west, and will be as long as there’s bad men left. There were white men around when I first came in here, renegades most of ’em, but nobody ever heard any talk of haunts or the like. Men like Tarran Kopp camped in there many’s the time!”

  “You were here,” Brewer asked, “when Tarran Kopp was around?”

  “Knowed him well. I was through this here country before he ever seen it. Came through with Kit Carson the first time, and he was the one named it Buckskin Run. Favorite camp ground for Kit, that’s what it was.

  “My name’s Jed Blue, and my feet made trails all over this country. I don’t know this man Morgan, but if he’s had the sense to settle in Buckskin Run he’s smart. That’s the best growing land around here!”

  Em Shipton glared at Jed Blue. “A lot you know about it! That valley is a wicked place! It’s haunted, and everybody from Cordova to Santa Fe knows it. What about the wagon trains that went
into it and disappeared?

  “What about the graves? Three men buried side by each, and what does it say on their markers? ‘No visible cause of death on these bodies.’”

  The Concord rumbled through a dry wash, then mounted the opposite bank with a jerk, bumped over a rock in the trail, and slowed to climb a steep, winding grade.

  Talk died as suddenly as it had begun, and Loma clenched her hands in her lap, fighting back the wave of panic that mounted within her.

  If Rod had become what they said, what would she do? What could she do? Her money was almost gone, and she would be fortunate if she had enough to last a week. Yet, what would have happened had she remained in the East? To be without money in one place was as bad as another.

  Yet, despite the assurance with which they spoke, she could not believe Rod was a murderer. Remembering his fine, clean-cut face, his clear, dark eyes, and his flashing smile, she could not accept what they said.

  The Concord groaned to the top of the grade, and the six horses swung wide around a curve and straightened out, running faster and faster.

  Suddenly there was a shot, a sharp yell, and the stage made a swerving stop so abruptly that Loma was thrown into Em Shipton’s lap. Recovering, she peered out of the window.

  A man lay flat in the middle of the trail, blood staining the back of his vest. Beside his right hand lay a six-shooter.

  To the left of the road were four riders, sitting their horses with hands uplifted. Facing the four from the right side of the road was a young man with dark, wavy hair blowing in the wind. He wore badly worn jeans, scuffed star boots and a black and white checkered shirt. There was an empty holster on his hip, and he held two guns in his hands.

  “Now pick up your man and get out of here! You came hunting it, and you found it.”

  Loma stifled a cry. “Rod!” she gasped. “Rod Morgan!”

  Her voice was low, but Jed Blue overheard. “Is that your man?” he asked.