Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0) Read online

  Contents

  Title page

  Worth Fighting For

  Dedication

  Foreword

  LAW OF THE DESERT BORN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Sycamore Wild Area

  RIDING ON

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Diamond Canyon

  THE BLACK ROCK COFFIN MAKERS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Bodie

  DESERT DEATH SONG

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Tonto Basin

  RIDE, YOU TONTO RAIDERS!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Stein’s Pass

  ONE LAST GUN NOTCH

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Mogollon Rim

  DEATH SONG OF THE SOMBRERO

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Bose Ikard

  THE GUNS TALK LOUD

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Deadwood Dick

  GRUB LINE RIDER

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Rattlesnake Jack Fallon

  THE MARSHAL OF PAINTED ROCK

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Bloodsucking Ticks

  TRAP OF GOLD

  About the Author

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  Copyright Page

  WORTH FIGHTING FOR

  KIM SARTAIN WAS a rider without illusions. Born and bred in the West, he knew to what extent such a man as Jim Targ could and would go. He knew that with tough, gun-handy riders, he would ordinarily be able to hold all the range he wanted, and that high meadow range was good enough to fight for.

  Sartain knew he was asking for trouble, yet there was something in him that resented being pushed around. He had breathed the free air of a free country too long and had the average American’s fierce resentment of tyranny. Targ’s high-handed manner had got his back up, and his decision had not been a passing fancy. He knew just what he was doing, but no matter what the future held, he was determined to move in on this range and hold it and fight for it if need be.…

  To my loyal readers, who

  will know how to read a brand.

  Foreword

  LAW OF THE DESERT BORN is the latest collection of short stories I have been putting together in a carefully planned series published by Bantam Books to offer my readers the products of my earlier years as a writer. Like the previous collections, WAR PARTY, THE STRONG SHALL LIVE, BUCKSKIN RUN, and BOWDRIE these are frontier stories. As I have been trying to do in recent collections, I have also included special new notes between the stories. In many cases these are historical notes to illustrate the background of the stories and the society from which they derived.

  After so many years legends have grown up, and debunkers with no actual knowledge of western history have made statements accepted by some as the truth. We do not have to imagine what happened in the West; we know. It is well documented in newspaper accounts as well as diaries and memoirs of the time by people who were present.

  In several instances I have included some of my personal experiences traveling around the kind of country I’ve written about, an approach I enjoyed taking for some of the notes in the first collection of some of my non-frontier stories, YONDERING.

  My own travels have not only taken me over all kinds of country but down some pretty mean streets as well. Part of those latter experiences prompted me to write some detective stories for the pulp magazines. Those of my readers who have only been exposed to my frontier stories might find this surprising but over the years I have tried to bring to all kinds of fiction the best storytelling I’m capable of, and these detective stories have a lot of action and colorful backgrounds in a period style similar to the stories of Hammett and Chandler.

  I mention this because I have been putting together my first collection of some of those early detective stories, THE HILLS OF HOMICIDE, at the same time I have been completing LAW OF THE DESERT BORN. It is unusual to publish two collections so close together but I have worked very hard to do so because, as I have announced on the back cover of this book, I have become aware that a publisher I am in no way associated with has announced publication of two completely unauthorized editions bearing these two titles. Those two books are completely unauthorized editions of some of the same stories that I have collected here. I had absolutely nothing to do with the putting together of the unauthorized editions of these two titles; in fact, for the first time in my career I went to court to try to protect the very rights I have struggled to gain over the years—to have my work published only as I see fit in the way I feel best serves my readers. The court ruled that since the copyrights in some of my stories had not been properly renewed, this other publisher could publish the original magazine versions in unauthorized collections.

  Imagine, this other publisher did not even have enough respect for me to tell me which of my stories they were planning to publish!

  The authors of the copyright law were attempting to protect a writer’s property rights to his work, and protected him for twenty-eight years after which he had a year to renew the copyright for another twenty-eight. Unfortunately, when the stories I recently went to court to try to protect were coming due for renewal, it was at a time when every day’s work was important if I was to earn a living for myself and my family, and some of the copyrights, in a very few of the stories, were not properly renewed.

  In determining the meaning of any law one has to ask: What was the intent of the lawmakers? The intent here was obvious: They intended to protect a writer’s rights to the work he had produced, not to open a gate to any interloper who might choose to rush in and try to profit from the hard work of someone else.

  The new copyright law indicates understanding of the problem. A writer’s work is now automatically protected for his lifetime plus fifty years.

  So that my readers will not be deprived of the authorized, proper presentation of my stories, I have worked around the clock to get ready this collection of frontier stories plus THE HILLS OF HOMICIDE collection of detective fiction which contain not only my revised versions of the stories in the unauthorized books but several additional stories, plus the aforementioned notes of interest.

  I have a very good and satisfying sense of my readers from the letters I receive and the personal contact I have had with many of them through the years: As far as I am concerned—and I’m confident, as far as my fans are concerned—any unauthorized editions of any of my fiction does not exist. I feel so strongly about this fact that should any of my readers, during one of my upcoming public appearances, bring me a copy of any unauthorized copy of a book with my name on it, I will refuse to sign it under any circumstances.

  Louis L’Amour

  Los Angeles, California

  July 1983

  LAW OF THE DESERT BORN

  SHAD MARONE CRAWLED out of the water swearing and slid into the mesquite. Suddenly, for the first time since the chase began, he was mad. He was mad clear through. “The hell with it!” He got to his feet, his eyes blazing. “I’ve run far enough! If they cross Black River, they’re askin’ for it!”

  For three days he had been on the dodge, using every stratagem known to men of the desert, but they clung to him like leeches. That was what came of killing a sheriff’s brother, and the fact that he killed in self-defense wasn’t going to help a bit. Especially when the killer was Shad Marone.

  That was what you could expect when you were the last man of the losing side in a cattle war. All his friends were gone now but Madge.

  The best people of Puerto de Luna hadn’t been the toughest in this scrap, and they had lost. And Shad Marone, who had been one of the toughest, had lost with them. His guns hadn’t been enough to outweigh those of the other faction.

  Of course, he admitted to himself, those on his side hadn’t been angels. He’d branded a few head of
calves himself from time to time, and when cash was short, he had often run a few steers over the border. But hadn’t they all?

  Truman and Dykes had been good men, but Dykes had been killed at the start, and Truman had fought like a gentleman, and that wasn’t any way to win in the Black River country.

  Since then, there had been few peaceful days for Shad Marone.

  After they’d elected Clyde Bowman sheriff, he knew they were out to get him. Bowman hated him, and Bowman had been one of the worst of them in the cattle war.

  The trouble was, Shad was a gunfighter, and they all knew it. Bowman was fast with a gun and in a fight could hold his own. Also, he was smart enough to leave Shad Marone strictly alone. So they just waited, watched, and planned.

  Shad had taken their dislike as a matter of course. It took tough men to settle a tough country, and if they started shooting, somebody got hurt. Well, he wasn’t getting hurt. There had been too much shooting to suit him.

  He wanted to leave Puerto de Luna, but Madge was still living on the old place, and he didn’t want to leave her there alone. So he stayed on, knowing it couldn’t last.

  Then Jud Bowman rode into town. Shad was thoughtful when he heard that. Jud was notoriously quarrelsome and was said to have twelve notches on his gun. Shad had a feeling that Jud hadn’t come to Puerto de Luna by accident.

  Jud hadn’t been in town two days before the grapevine had the story that if Clyde and Lopez were afraid to run Marone out of town, he wasn’t.

  Jud Bowman might have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for Tips. Tips Hogan had been tending bar in Puerto de Luna for a long time. He’d come over the trail as wagon boss for Shad’s old man, something everyone had forgotten but Shad and Tips himself.

  Tips saw the gun in Bowman’s lap, and he gave Marone a warning. It was just a word, through unmoving lips, while he mopped the bar.

  After a moment, Shad turned, his glass in his left hand, and he saw the way Bowman was sitting and how the tabletop would conceal a gun in his lap. Even then, when he knew they had set things up to kill him, he hadn’t wanted trouble. He decided to get out while the getting was good. Then he saw Slade near the door and Henderson across the room.

  He was boxed. They weren’t gambling this time. Tips Hogan knew what was likely to happen, and he was working his way down the bar.

  Marone took it easy. He knew it was coming, and it wasn’t a new thing. That was his biggest advantage, he thought. He had been in more fights than any of them. He didn’t want any more trouble, but if he got out of this, it would be right behind a six-gun. The back door was barred and the window closed.

  Jud Bowman looked up suddenly. He had a great shock of blond, coarse hair, and under bushy brows his eyes glinted. “What’s this about you threatenin’ to kill me, Marone?”

  So that was their excuse. He had not threatened Bowman, scarcely knew him, in fact, but this was the way to put him in the wrong, to give them the plea of self-defense.

  He let his eyes turn to Bowman, saw the tensity in the man’s face. A denial, and there would be shooting. Jud’s right-hand fingertips rested on the table’s edge. He had only to drop a hand and fire.

  “Huh?” Shad said stupidly, as though startled from a daydream. He took a step toward the table, his face puzzled. “Wha’d you say? I didn’t get it.”

  They had planned it all very carefully. Marone would deny, Bowman would claim he’d been called a liar; there would be a killing. They were tense, all three of them set to draw.

  “Huh?” Shad repeated blankly.

  They were caught flat-footed. After all, you couldn’t shoot a man in cold blood. You couldn’t shoot a man who was half-asleep. Most of the men in the saloon were against Marone, but they would never stand for murder.

  They were poised for action, and nothing happened. Shad blinked at them. “Sorry,” he said, “I must’ve been dreamin’. I didn’t hear you.”

  Bowman glanced around uncertainly, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I said I heard you threatened to kill me,” he repeated. It sounded lame, and he knew it, but Shad’s response had been unexpected. What happened then was even more unexpected.

  Marone’s left hand shot out, and before anyone could move, the table was spun from in front of Bowman. Everyone saw the naked gun lying in his lap.

  Every man in the saloon knew that Jud Bowman, for all his reputation, had been afraid to shoot it out with an even break. It would have been murder.

  Taken by surprise, Bowman blinked foolishly. Then his wits came back. Blood rushed to his face. He grabbed the gun. “Why, you…!”

  Then Shad Marone shot him. Shad shot him through the belly, and before the other two could act, he wheeled, not toward the door, but to the closed window. He battered it with his shoulder and went right on through. Outside, he hit the ground on his hands but came up in a lunging run. Then he was in the saddle and on his way.

  There were men in the saloon who would tell the truth—two at least, although neither had much use for him. But Marone knew that with Clyde Bowman as sheriff he would never be brought to trial. He would be killed “evading arrest.”

  For three days, he fled, and during that time, they were never more than an hour behind him. Then, at Forked Tree, they closed in. He got away, but they clipped his horse. The roan stayed on his feet, giving all he had, as horses always had given for Shad Marone, and then died on the riverbank, still trying with his last breath.

  Marone took time to cache his saddle and bridle, then started on afoot. He made the river, and they thought that would stop him, for he couldn’t swim a stroke. But he found a drift log, and with his guns riding high, he shoved off. Using the current and his own kicking, he got to the other bank, considerably downstream.

  The thing that bothered him was the way they clung to his trail. Bowman wasn’t the man to follow as little trail as he left. Yet the man hung to him like an Apache.

  Apache!

  Why hadn’t he thought of that? It would be Lopez following that trail, not Bowman. Bowman was a bulldog, but Lopez was wily as a fox and bloodthirsty as a weasel.

  Shad got to his feet and shook the water from him like a dog. He was a big, rawboned, sun-browned man. His shirt was half torn away, and a bandolier of cartridges was slung across his shoulder and chest. His six-gun was on his hip, his rifle in his hand.

  He poured the water out of his boots. Well, he was through playing now. If they wanted a trail, he’d see that they got one.

  Lopez was the one who worried him. He could shake the others, but Lopez was one of the men who had built this country. He was ugly, he killed freely and often, he was absolutely ruthless, but he had nerve. You had to hand it to him. The man wasn’t honest, and he was too quick to kill, but it had taken men like him to tame this wild, lonely land. It was a land that didn’t tame easy.

  Well, what they’d get now would be death for them all. Even Lopez. This was something he’d been saving.

  Grimly he turned up the steep, little-used path from the river. They thought they had him at the river. And they would think they had him again at the lava beds.

  Waterless, treeless, and desolate, the lava beds were believed to harbor no life of any kind. Only sand and great, jagged rocks—rocks shaped like flame—grotesque, barren, awful. More than seventy miles long, never less than thirty miles wide, so rough a pair of shoes wouldn’t last five miles and footing next to impossible for horses.

  On the edge of the lava, Shad Marone sat down and pulled off his boots. Tying their strings, he hung them to his belt. Then he pulled out a pair of moccasins he always carried and slipped them on. Pliable and easy on his feet, they would give to the rough rock and would last many times as long in this terrain as boots. He got up and walked into the lava beds.

  The bare lava caught the fierce heat and threw it back in his face. A trickle of sweat started down his cheek. He knew the desert, knew how to live in the heat, and he did not try to hurry. That would be fatal. Far ahead of him was a massive tower
of rock jutting up like a church steeple from a tiny village. He headed that way, walking steadily. He made no attempt to cover his trail, no attempt to lose his pursuers. He knew where he was going.

  An hour passed, and then another. It was slow going. The rock tower had come abreast of him and then fallen behind. Once he saw the trail of some tiny creature, perhaps a horned frog.

  Once, when he climbed a steep declivity, he glanced back. They were still coming. They hadn’t quit.

  Lopez—that was like Lopez. He wouldn’t quit. Shad smiled then, but his eyes were without humor. All right, they wanted to kill him bad enough to try the lava beds. They would have to learn the hard way—learn when they could never profit from the lesson.

  He kept working north, using the shade carefully. There was little of it, only here and there in the lee of a rock. But each time he stopped, he cooled off a little. So far he hadn’t taken a drink.

  After the third hour, he washed his lips and rinsed his mouth. Twice, after that, he took only a spoonful of water and rinsed his mouth before swallowing.

  Occasionally, he stopped and looked around to get his bearings. He smiled grimly when he thought of Bowman. The sheriff was a heavy man. Davis would be there, too. Lopez was lean and wiry. He would last. He would be hard to kill.

  By his last count, there were eight left. Four had turned back at the lava beds. He gained a little.

  At three in the afternoon, he finally stopped. It was a nice piece of shade and would grow better as the hours went on. The ground was low, and in one corner there was a pocket. He dug with his hands until the ground became damp. Then he lay back on the sand and went to sleep.

  He wasn’t worried. Too many years he had been awakening at the hour he wished, his senses alert to danger. He was an hour ahead of them, at least. He would need this rest he was going to get. What lay ahead would take everything he had. He knew that.