Milo Talon Read online

  COMPLETELY DEAD

  MY EYES WERE on Wally but they took in the other man, too. “You,” I said, “with the blue shirt? Are you in this? Or do you want to live?”

  “I’m looking for a Mexican,” he said, “just what we were sent to do. Come on, Wally. Let’s ride.”

  “All right,” Wally said. He started to turn his horse and as he did he drew his pistol. He was medium fast, and completely dead.

  He had the pistol clear and his face was shining with triumph. He’d show me!

  The jolt of my .44 didn’t knock him out of the saddle but it let air through him from one side to the other. He dropped his six-shooter and grabbed for the horn and hung on tight, staring at me, his face growing whiter.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “All you had to do was ride away.”

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR THE BOOKS YOU HAVE MISSED.

  NOVELS

  Bendigo Shafter

  Borden Chantry

  Brionne

  The Broken Gun

  The Burning Hills

  The Californios

  Callaghen

  Catlow

  Chancy

  The Cherokee Trail

  Comstock Lode

  Conagher

  Crossfire Trail

  Dark Canyon

  Down the Long Hills

  The Empty Land

  Fair Blows the Wind

  Fallon

  The Ferguson Rifle

  The First Fast Draw

  Flint

  Guns of the Timberlands

  Hanging Woman Creek

  The Haunted Mesa

  Heller with a Gun

  The High Graders

  High Lonesome

  Hondo

  How the West Was Won

  The Iron Marshal

  The Key-Lock Man

  Kid Rodelo

  Kilkenny

  Killoe

  Kilrone

  Kiowa Trail

  Last of the Breed

  Last Stand at Papago Wells

  The Lonesome Gods

  The Man Called Noon

  The Man from the Broken Hills

  The Man from Skibbereen

  Matagorda

  Milo Talon

  The Mountain Valley War

  North to the Rails

  Over on the Dry Side

  Passin’ Through

  The Proving Trail

  The Quick and the Dead

  Radigan

  Reilly’s Luck

  The Rider of Lost Creek

  Rivers West

  The Shadow Riders

  Shalako

  Showdown at Yellow Butte

  Silver Canyon

  Sitka

  Son of a Wanted Man

  Taggart

  The Tall Stranger

  To Tame a Land

  Tucker

  Under the Sweetwater Rim

  Utah Blaine

  The Walking Drum

  Westward the Tide

  Where the Long Grass Blows

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Beyond the Great Snow Mountains

  Bowdrie

  Bowdrie’s Law

  Buckskin Run

  The Collected Short Stories of Louis L’Amour (vols. 1–3)

  Dutchman’s Flat

  End of the Drive

  From the Listening Hills

  The Hills of Homicide

  Law of the Desert Born

  Long Ride Home

  Lonigan

  May There Be a Road

  Monument Rock

  Night over the Solomons

  Off the Mangrove Coast

  The Outlaws of Mesquite

  The Rider of the Ruby Hills

  Riding for the Brand

  The Strong Shall Live

  The Trail to Crazy Man

  Valley of the Sun

  War Party

  West from Singapore

  West of Dodge

  With These Hands

  Yondering

  SACKETT TITLES

  Sackett’s Land

  To the Far Blue Mountains

  The Warrior’s Path

  Jubal Sackett

  Ride the River

  The Daybreakers

  Sackett

  Lando

  Mojave Crossing

  Mustang Man

  The Lonely Men

  Galloway

  Treasure Mountain

  Lonely on the Mountain

  Ride the Dark Trail

  The Sackett Brand

  The Sky-Liners

  THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS

  The Riders of the High Rock

  The Rustlers of West Fork

  The Trail to Seven Pines

  Trouble Shooter

  NONFICTION

  Education of a Wandering Man

  Frontier

  THE SACKETT COMPANION: A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels

  A TRAIL OF MEMORIES: The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique L’Amour

  POETRY

  Smoke from This Altar

  MILO TALON

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam edition published August 1981

  Bantam reissue / October 1994

  Bantam reissue / May 2002

  Bantam reissue / February 2006

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Photograph of Louis L’Amour by John Hamilton—Globe Photos, Inc.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 1981 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust

  Excerpt from Law of the Desert Born Text copyright © 2013 by Beau L’Amour; Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Louis L’Amour Enterprises, Inc.

  Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-89948-1

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1_r1

  To Leo and Cylvia

  Author’s Note

  THE OPENING OF the West had many aspects: exploration, the fur trade, wagon trains, buffalo hunting, Indian wars, cattle ranching, mining, town sites, and not the least, railroad construction.

  The old maps can still be found as well as brochures full of glowing promise but having little connection with reality. Some of these railroads were actually completed, opening vast areas to development.

  This is not a story of railroads but of people momentarily involved, of Milo Talon and his search for a missing girl among people whose sole motivation was greed.

  Milo Talon’s mother, Em, was a Sackett and, in fact, an earlier adventure featuring Milo and Em, The Man from the Broken Hills, is grouped with the Sackett novels and published by Bantam. But beginning with this novel and continuing on with other stories I have planned, I hope the Talons will begin to stand on their own. You’ll find more background on the Talon family in Rivers West also.

  The country written about is mostly west and south of Pueblo, Colorado. If you visit a town called Beulah you will be in what was once called Fisher’s Hole. The North Creek road was for some time the only practical route into the Hole. The route used several times in this story was a horseback trail, although western people took wagons wherever they needed them.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author
’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About Louis L’Amour

  Excerpt from LAW OF THE DESERT BORN (Graphic Novel)

  CHAPTER 1

  THE PRIVATE CAR stood alone on a railroad siding bathed in the hot red blood of a desert sunset. Stepping down from the saddle, I tied my horse to the hitching rail, glanced again at the obvious opulence of the car, and took off my chaps and spurs, hanging them from the saddlehorn.

  “Don’t fret,” I told my horse. “I’ll not be long.”

  With a whip or two of my hat to brush the worst of the dust from my clothes, I crossed to the car and swung aboard. I paused an instant, then opened the door and stepped into the observation room. All was satinwood and vermilion.

  A table, a carafe of wine, and glasses. A black man wearing a white coat stepped from the passage along the side. “Yes, sir?”

  “I am Milo Talon.”

  “A moment, sir.”

  He vanished and I stood alone. There was a distant murmur of voices and the black man returned. “This way, sir? If you please?”

  The passage led past the doors of two staterooms to the salon which doubled as a dining room. The room was comfortable but ornate with heavily tassled and fringed draperies, velvet portieres, and thick wall-to-wall carpets.

  Hat in hand I waited, catching a glimpse of myself in the narrow mirrors between the windows. For a moment I was seeing what others might see: a lean, dark young man in a wine-colored shirt, black tie, black coat, and gray pinstriped trousers. Under the coat a gun belt and a Colt.

  The office compartment into which I was shown was small but beautifully appointed, and the man behind the desk fitted the picture. He was square-shouldered and square-jawed, a man accustomed to command. He might have been sixty or more but seemed younger. His mustache and hair were black with scarcely a hint of gray. He wore a black, beautifully tailored suit. His manners, I felt, were as neatly tailored as his clothing. He gestured to a chair, then opened a box of expensive cigars and offered it to me.

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Sit down, won’t you?”

  “I’ll stand, sir.”

  The jaws tightened a little; a short-tempered man, I thought, who does not like to be thwarted in even the smallest thing.

  “I am Jefferson Henry,” he said.

  “And I am Milo Talon. You wished to see me?”

  “I wish to employ you.”

  “If I like the job.”

  “I will pay well. Very well.”

  “If I like the job.”

  The skin around his eyes seemed to tighten. “You’re damned independent!”

  “Yes, sir. Shall we get on with it, sir? What led you to me?”

  “You were referred to me as a man who could do a difficult job, a close-mouthed man, and who if required would charge hell with a bucket of water.”

  “Well?”

  He did not like me. It was in his mind, I think, to tell me to leave, to get out. Something else was in his mind also because he did nothing of the kind.

  “I want you to find someone for me. I want you to find a girl.”

  “You will have to find your own women.” I started to put on my hat.

  “The girl is my son’s daughter. She has been missing for twelve years.”

  A moment longer I hesitated, then sat down. “Tell me about it.”

  “Fifteen years ago my son and I quarreled. He went west. I have not seen or heard from him since.”

  “Have you any idea,” I asked, “how many men are simply swallowed up by this country? Men drop from sight every day and no one takes notice. Usually, nobody cares. I have helped to bury several. No names, no other means of identification, no hint as to origin or destination. Some are killed by thieves or Indians, some die of thirst, cholera, or accident.”

  “No doubt, but my son had a daughter. It is she whom I hope to find.”

  “And not your son?”

  “He is dead.” Jefferson Henry bit the end from a cigar. “My son was weak. He was bold enough when telling me to go to hell, but he had done that several times and had always come back. If he was alive he would have done so again, so I know he is dead.”

  “What of his wife? The girl’s mother?”

  Henry lit the cigar. “It was she we quarreled over. I have no wish to see her. I am not interested in her. I wish only to find my son’s daughter.”

  He paused, considering the glowing end of the cigar. Then he said, “I am a very rich man. I am no longer young. I have no other heir, and I am alone. She must be found.”

  “And if she is not found? Who inherits then?”

  His eyes were cold. “We will not discuss that. You are to find my granddaughter. You will be well paid.”

  “Your son disappeared fifteen years ago?”

  “He married despite my wishes. He took his wife and their daughter and went west, working for a time in Ohio then in St. Louis.” Jefferson Henry brushed the ash from his cigar.

  “The daughter may not have lived.”

  “Of course. That is a contingency for which I am prepared.”

  “Or she may have become somebody whom you may not wish to claim.”

  “That is a possibility.”

  “Why me?”

  “You have been mentioned to me as a man who knows the West. You were a scout for the Army. You were mentioned as a man of perception and intelligence.” He paused. “It was also said that you had acceptance along the Outlaw Trail.”

  “Oh?”

  “I might add—I knew your father.”

  “You knew him?”

  “He was a hard-headed, opinionated, difficult man, but he was honest. We agreed on almost nothing, but once set upon a course he could not be turned aside.”

  “You were his friend?”

  Jefferson Henry brushed the ash from his cigar. From under his thick brows his eyes were like blue ice. “I was not. Our dislike was immediate and mutual. It remained so. But I did not come two thousand miles to talk of him. When I hire a man I try to get the best man for the job. You were recommended.”

  He opened a drawer of the desk where he sat and took out a sack of gold coins. At least, by their apparent weight I judged they were gold. “There is one thousand dollars. I do not demand an itemized account of your expenses, only a general coverage. I understand that in such situations moneys often have to be expended that are better not accounted for.”

  From another drawer he took a large manila envelope. “This contains copies of letters, old photographs, some memoranda. It is all I have.”

  “You have been trying to find her?”

  “Everything failed. Even the Pinkertons.”

  For a few minutes I considered it. There was something here I did not like, yet I could not put a finger on it for he seemed straightforward enough, yet every instinct told me the man was not to be trusted. Nonetheless, the problem fascinated me and I was footloose … and broke. Or nearly so.

  “All right. If she is alive I will find her. If she is dead, I will know where she was buried.”

  “You will find her? Where others failed?”

  “Why not? You would not have come to me if you did not believe I could find her.”

  He gave me that straight, hard look again. “I believe nothing of the kind. You are, however, my
last chance.” He indicated the envelope. “My address is there, or you may find me through any Wells Fargo office. If you need more money you may go to any Wells Fargo office and draw up to one thousand dollars. If you need more than that, you must contact me personally.”

  “Up to how much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. I am prepared to spend that much and no more.”

  It was a lot of money, an awful lot of money. I said as much.

  He waved a hand. “It is. But she is the heir to all I have. If she is not my only living relative, as I believe, she is at least the only one whom I care to acknowledge.”

  “If I accept, what will I be paid?”

  Jefferson Henry indicated the sack of gold. “Your expenses will be paid. I shall pay you one hundred and fifty dollars a month during the term of your employment and a bonus of one thousand dollars if you find her.”

  “Two hundred a month,” I said.

  His eyes showed impatience. “You ask for two hundred? You’ve worked as a cowpuncher for thirty dollars a month!”

  “This is not cowpunching.” I got to my feet. “It is two hundred or no deal. The money to be paid to my account at the Wells Fargo office in El Paso.”

  He hesitated, not liking it or me, but finally he said, “All right, two hundred it is.”

  “In advance.”

  He took gold coins from another drawer and paid them over the desk. “See that you earn it.”

  Leaving the car, envelope in hand, I was puzzled. Stepping down from the car, I crossed to my horse. What was bothering me? It seemed a fairly straightforward proposition, although searching for missing persons had never been something for which I was noted.

  Glancing back toward the car, I was startled to see another man in the salon where I had just been. He was standing close to Jefferson Henry and they were talking, gesturing. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, larger than Henry, who was not a small man.

  It was not the porter.

  Now then, who was he? And where had he been during my talk with Henry?

  If I’d learned one thing during my knockabout years it was that a man lives only through awareness, and it irritated me that I had not known of the man’s presence.