Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) Read online

  Contents

  Title page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Author’s Note

  Lonigan

  Author’s Note

  Regan of the Slash B

  Author’s Note

  Heritage of Hate

  Author’s Note

  Rowdy Rides to Glory

  Author’s Note

  Pardner from the Rio

  Author’s Note

  Bill Carey Rides West

  About the Author

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  Copyright Page

  To Bob Christy

  * * *

  Foreword

  * * *

  SEVERAL OF THE stories that follow have to do with the large-scale movement of cattle from place to place. In the days of the cattle drives for which the west became famous, those movements usually began in Texas and went north to the railroad shipping towns in Kansas, though cattle were often driven on to northern ranges in Wyoming, Montana, the Dakotas, or Canada.

  The largest herd that could be handled with ease—if that term could be applied to any cattle drive—was about 2500 head. A few larger herds were moved, but they proved difficult and so were rarely attempted.

  It was customary to move such herds at twelve to fifteen miles per day, and often less, depending on the existing grass and water. The idea was to take time and let the herd fatten up as it moved.

  In the days of the early drive the horns on a longhorn would average over four feet wide, and those with horns of six feet and better could be found in almost every herd. There were a few, of course, that exceeded that breadth, but they were the exception.

  Stampedes were the bane of the drover’s existence for more weight could be run off in a night than could be put on in a week, and aside from the loss of many head of cattle, the weight loss was enough to cut all the profit from such a drive.

  The longhorns driven north from Texas were wild animals, rounded up from the plains of eastern Texas and driven from the thickets. Once trail-broken and away from their old grazing grounds, they moved along easily, but at night or when bad weather was breeding, they were easily startled, and once they had stampeded, were easy to start again. Twelve to eighteen men could handle a herd of the size I mention, although the numbers varied. Within a few days, and in some cases a few hours, the herd would sort itself out. One steer, or sometimes a cow, would take the lead and maintain it. The others would string out, and usually the same bunch could be found leading the herd and another lot bringing up the rear.

  Unless the next day’s drive to water was a long one, a responsible drover would take his time getting the herd off the bedding ground where they had slept the night before, and unless grazing along the route, they were usually stopped for a noon break and permitted to graze and rest.

  Usually when on a drive, the cattle would be strung out over several miles of trail, each steer holding to his own place in line. Even after a stampede, as soon as the herd was strung out again, each steer would find his place in line, usually beside some particular companion. Among cattle there were always those who assumed leadership, moving right to the front of the herd and remaining there. Such a one was Old Blue, famous on Texas ranges for many years, who led herd after herd over the trail to Kansas.

  If possible, a trail-drive boss would water his herd then move along two or three miles before bedding them down for the night. Such cattle settled down in much better shape and started off better in the morning.

  Cattle drives were not all from Texas into Kansas and farther north. In earlier days herds had swum the Mississippi, and during the war, were driven to southern markets. Other herds had been driven to Chicago and even into Ohio and Pennsylvania. These, however, were infrequent, and most of the drives were from Texas north. It has been estimated that in the space of some fifteen years, more than ten million cattle were driven from Texas.

  Cattle were also driven from Oregon into Montana and Wyoming. These were rarely longhorns, but mostly Durham with some Herefords, and relatively less trouble than the longhorn.

  There are still cattle drives nowadays, although for shorter distances and with fewer head. And there are always a few volunteer riders to accompany any such drive, men from other occupations who love the experience of the drive, its hard work and friendly associations. My friend Charlie Daniels, leader of the Charlie Daniels Band, is one such.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  * * *

  THE FINE ART OF RUSTLING

  No doubt the rustling of cattle started on the second day after the first cattle ranch was established, and the ingenuity of the rustler has increased over the years. Many of the early wars in Scotland and Ireland were wars over stolen cattle, and many of the customs of western men can be traced to Scottish Highlanders.

  There was no set pattern of stealing cattle. Of course, the usual way was simply to round up a few cows on the range and drive them off. Another common practice was to simply drift cattle into a remote corner of the range, then, when the occasion offered, nudge them a little farther away, often into some remote canyon where the grass and water were good and the cattle not likely to return to old pastures. In due time the brands would be altered by a good rewrite man and the cattle drifted into the thief’s own herd.

  “Sleepering” cattle was another device. During the round-up, when each ranch was represented by its own hands or perhaps simply a rep—a cowhand representing brands whose hands were not officially involved in the roundup—all cattle were being checked off and the unbranded marked with the appropriate brands and returned to the herd to be released on the range. Rounded up and unbranded cattle were held in a special herd to be branded in following days, and during the night those cow thieves engaged in sleepering would drive some of the unbranded stock over to the branded herd. Later, after the cattle were released on the range, they would cut out and brand the unbranded stock for themselves.

  At first, when the cattle business was new, beef had no value and much wild, unbranded, or “maverick” stock ran loose on the range. When the railroad was built into Kansas and there was a demand for beef in the eastern states, cowhands would ride out with a running iron to brand anything they found, and an artist with a simple running iron could create any brand he wished. As the cattle business became big business, running irons were outlawed and only stamp irons were permitted. The stamp iron has a cattleman’s brand which can be burned on the side of a steer with one move. Anyone caught with a running iron could be and often was hung simply on suspicion that he was a rustler.

  Rustlers, of course, were not to be pushed aside so easily, and many found they could be just as inventive and artistic with a saddle cinch ring, held by two sticks after being heated in a fire, as with a running iron. Some twisted and heated barbed wire did almost as well.

  Of course, by killing and skinning the steer, the alteration of a brand could be seen plainly on the inside of the hide. Stock killed for sale to meat markets left a hide to be disposed of where it was not likely to be found. Often such hides were buried, and occasionally found by a rancher with a rope suitable for providing the rustler with a suspended sentence—suspended from the nearest tree.

  Down along the border it was for a time the custom to steal cattle in Mexico, and trail them over to sell in the States. Returning, the outlaws would steal cattle in the States to be sold back in Mexico. It is reported that King Fisher of Uvalde, the gunfighter, had a nice operation like this until he reformed and became a deputy sheriff.

  Unfortunately he took a trip to San Antonio, and in trying to keep Ben Thompson out of trouble, was killed beside him, leaving a weeping widow and some fatherless cows.


  The stories of rustling are many, and new devices are being invented all the while. Although horse-riding bandits are out of fashion now, the stealing of cattle is not, only now it is done with trucks.

  LONIGAN

  * * *

  HEAT LAY LIKE the devil’s curse upon the slow-moving herd, and dust clouded above and around them. The eyes of the cattle were glazed, and the grass beneath their feet was brown and without vigor or life-giving nourishment.

  The sun was lost in a brassy sky, and when Calkins knelt and put his palm to the ground the earth was almost too hot to touch. He got slowly to his feet, his face unnaturally old with the gray film of dust and the stubble of beard on his jaws.

  “You ask for the truth.” His voice was harsher than normal, and Ruth Gurney recognized it at once, and looked at him quickly, for as a child, she had known this man and had loved him like an uncle. “All right, you’ll get the truth. There’s no chance of you making money on this herd. Half your cows will die this side of Dodge. They’ll die of thirst and heat, and the rest won’t be worth the drive. You’re broke, ma’am.”

  Her lips tightened and as the truth penetrated she was filled with desperation coupled with a feminine desire for tears. All along she had guessed as much, but one-and-all the hands had avoided telling her.

  “But what’s the matter, Lon? The Circle G always made its drives before, and always made money. We’ve the same men, and the trail’s the same.”

  “No.” He spoke flatly. “Nothin’s the same. The trail’s bad. It’s been a strikin’ dry year, and we got a late start. The other herds got the good grass, and trampled the rest into the dust. She’s hotter’n usual, too. And,” he added grimly, “we ain’t got the same men.”

  “But we have, Lon!” Ruth protested.

  “No.” He was old and stubborn. “We ain’t. We got one new one too many, and the one we should have ain’t here.”

  Her lips tightened and her chin lifted. “You mean Hoey Ives. You don’t like him.”

  “You should spit in the river, I don’t! Nor do the others. He’s plumb bad, ma’am, whether you believe it or not. He’s no-account. I’ll allow, he’s educated and slick talkin’, but he’s still an Ives, and a bigger pack of coyotes never drew breath.”

  “And you think this—this Lonigan would make a difference? What can one man do against heat and dust and distance? What could he do to prevent storms and rustler raids?”

  “I ain’t for knowing. If’n I did, mebbe this herd would get through in shape. But Lonigan would know, and Lonigan would take her through. Nor would he take any guff from Hoey Ives. I’ll tell you, ma’am, Hoey ain’t along for fun. He comes of a pack of outlaws, and education ain’t changed his breed none.”

  “We won’t talk about Mr. Ives any further, Lon. Not one word. I have utmost confidence in him. When the drive is over I…I may marry him.”

  Lon Calkins stared at her. “I’ll kill him first, or die shooting. Your pappy was a friend of mine. I’ll not see a daughter of his marry into that outfit.” Then he added, more calmly. “If’n that’s what you figure, Ruth, you better plan on hirin’ new hands when you get back to Texas.”

  “Very well, then, that’s what I’ll do, Lon.” Her voice was even, but inside her words frightened her. “That’s just what I’ll do. I own the Circle G, and I’ll run it my way.”

  * * *

  CALKINS SAID NOTHING for a long minute, and then he mused. “I wonder sometimes if’n anybody does own a brand. The Circle G, ma’am, ain’t just a brand on some cows. It ain’t just some range in Texas. It’s more…much, much more.

  “I ain’t much hand to talkin’ of things like that, but you remember when your pappy and us come west? The Comanches killed O’Brien and Kid Leslie on the Brazos. I reckon both of them were part of the Circle G, ma’am. And Tony, that lousy Italian grub hustler, the one who rolled under a chuck wagon down on the cowhouse. He was part of the Circle G, too.

  “A brand ain’t just a sign on a critter, it’s the lives, and guts, and blood of all the men that went to build it, ma’am. You can’t get away from that, no way. The Circle G is your pappy standin’ over your mother when she died givin’ birth to you. The Circle G is all of that.

  “Nobody owns a brand, ma’am, like I say; nobody. It’s a thing that hangs in the air over a ranch, over its cows, and over its men. You know why that kid Wilkeson got killed in Uvalde? An hombre there said this was a lousy outfit, and the kid reached for his gun. He died for the brand, ma’am, like a hundred good and bad men done afore this. And you want to wipe it out, destroy it, just because you got your mind set on a no-account coyote. I wish Lonigan was back.”

  “Lonigan!” She burst out furiously. “All you talk about is Lonigan! Who is he? What is he? What difference can one man make?”

  “Well,” Calkins said grimly, “your pappy made a sight of difference! If’n he was with this drive now, your fancy Hoey Ives would pack out of here so fast his dust would be bigger’n that raised by the herd! Or if Lonigan was. Fact is,” he added grimly, “there ain’t nary a cowhand down there wouldn’t draw on Hoey tomorrow if’n he figured he had a chance. Hoey’s killed ten men, all better’n him except with a gun.”

  “And yet you think Lonigan could beat him?” she asked wryly.

  “Mebbe. I ain’t sure, but I am sure of one thing. If Lonigan died you can bet your boots Hoey Ives would die with him! You say,” he continued, “what difference can one man make? Well, he can make a sight of difference. Lonigan doesn’t talk so much; he’s a good worker, but he’s got something in him, something more’n most men. He ain’t so big, rightly he’s not, but he seems big, and he rode for the brand, Lonigan did. He loved the Circle G. Loved it like it was his own.”

  “Then where is he now when we need him?” Ruth demanded bitterly. “This…this superman of yours. Where is he now? You say he never missed a trail drive, that he would drift off, but somehow like he knew the day and hour, he would show up and take his place with the herd. Where is he now?”

  “Mebbe he’s dead.” Calkins was grim. “Wherever he is, he’s with the Circle G, and we’re with him.”

  They looked up at the sound of hoofs, and Lon Calkins’s face tightened grimly. Abruptly, he reined his horse around. “I’ll be ridin’,” he said.

  “You meant what you said about quitting?” she asked.

  “If he stays,” Calkins insisted, “I go.”

  “I’ll be sorry to lose you, Lon. The Circle G won’t be the same without you.”

  His old eyes met hers and he stared at her. “Believe me, it won’t. Your father should have had a son.”

  He rode away then, and she stared after him, her body feeling empty as an old sack. The approaching hoofs drew nearer and slowed, and her eyes turned with relief toward those of Hoey Ives.

  * * *

  He was a big young man with hard black eyes in which she had never seen the cruelty or calculation that lay in their depths. He rode magnificently and was a top hand. On this trip he had been her mainstay, ramrodding it through, talking to lift her spirits, advising her and helping her in countless ways. It was he who had selected the trail they took, he who had ridden out alone to meet the rustlers that would have stopped them, and who talked them out of trouble.

  “What’s the matter with the old man?” he asked. “What’s he growling about now?”

  “Oh, he was talking about the old days on the Circle G,” she said, “and about Lonigan.”

  “Lonigan?” Hoey’s gaze sharpened, and for an instant she seemed to read apprehension in his eyes. “He hasn’t heard from him?”

  “Nobody has. Yet he always made the drive.”

  “He’s dead,” Ives replied. “He must be. I knew he always made the drive, and that was why I waited before offering my services. We never got along, you see.”

  “What’s he like?” she asked curiously.

  “Lonigan?” Ives hesitated, while his bay stamped its foot restlessly. “He’s a killer. Utterl
y vicious.”

  “But the boys liked him,” Ruth protested.

  “Sure. He was their pride and joy,” Ives said bitterly. “He led the Circle G parade. No man, not even your father, had as much influence with the hands. He was loudmouthed and a braggart, but he appealed to them, and they found excuses for his killings.”

  “Yet he must have something…?”

  “Yes,” Hoey Ives nodded reluctantly. “He had that. There was something about him, something that frightened men who didn’t even know him.”…

  Ives rejoined the herd, and Ruth Gurney rode on, lingering along the hillcrests away from the dust, watching the herd that meant everything to her. The sale of that herd could mean the ranch was out of debt, that it was hers, all hers. Yet she knew that what Calkins had said was true, bitterly true. Not half the herd would live to see Dodge, and she would be broke then, broke and finished.

  She turned her horse and put him on up the slope to the very top of the long, low hill that ran beside the trail. On top there might be more breeze. And there was, although but little more. Yet she sat her horse there, looking over the brown, trampled-down grass that stretched on beyond it. There, too, the herds had been. The earlier herds that had started sooner.

  The failure of Lonigan to appear had caused most of that delay. All along she had realized why Calkins was waiting, why the hands kept looking toward the trail, why they found excuses to ride into town, why they intercepted every drifting horseman to ask about him, but for the first time he had not appeared.

  She pushed on across the ridge, riding due west. The sun was already far down toward the horizon but it was still unbearably hot. Heat waves danced and rippled against the sky along the ridges, and she slowed her horse to a walk and pushed on alone, lost now from the herd, with only the rising dust to mark its presence.