The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Read online

  Brett Larane got his hands under him and very carefully pushed himself up. He flexed his knees with great caution. His arms and legs functioned normally, which was a good sign. To be helpless now would mean sure death.

  When he was on his knees he lifted a hand to the scalp wound in his head. It was just that, no more nor less. No doubt there had been a mild concussion also. The wound in his lower left side was worse, and from the caked condition of his shirt and pants, he knew he must have lost a great deal of blood.

  Bleeding, he knew, would make a man thirsty, and this was an added danger.

  He retrieved his gun and returned it to his holster. The shot that struck him down had come utterly without warning. The drawing of the gun had been one of those purely instinctive actions, natural to a man who is much dependent upon a weapon. It had been due to conditioning rather than intelligence.

  Shakily, he got to his feet and glanced around for his horse, but it was nowhere in sight.

  They had taken his outfit, then. He was a man afoot in the desert, miles from possible aid, a man who had lost his saddle. In this country, that alone was tantamount to a death sentence.

  There was shade under the overhang of the butte and he moved toward it, walking carefully. Once there, he lowered himself gingerly to a sitting position. He was afraid of opening the wound and starting the bleeding again. Weakness flooded him, and he sat there, gasping and half-sick with fear. Nausea swept over him and came up in his throat.

  He wanted to live, he wanted desperately to live.

  He wanted to see Marta once more, to finish the job he had begun for her. He wanted to repay those who had shot him down from ambush. He wanted all these things, and not to die here alone in the shadow of a lost butte on a sun-parched desert.

  Realist that he was, he knew his chances of survival were slight. On this desert without a horse, a strong man might figure the odds as at least fifty to one against him. For a wounded man, the odds went to such figures that they were beyond the grasp of any run-of-the-herd cowhand.

  Horse Springs, the last settlement, lay sixty miles behind him. And in this heat and without water, that distance made the town as remote as a distant planet. Willow Valley lay some forty or fifty miles ahead, somewhere over yonder in the blue haze that shrouded the mountains along the horizon.

  No doubt there was water not too far distant, but in what direction and how far?

  There are few stretches of desert without some sort of spring or water hole. But unless one knew their location they were of no use, for no man could wander about at random hoping to find one. One might be within a dozen yards of one and never know it.

  All the while he thought of this he knew he dared not look. He would have no direction, no indication, and in his condition there was but one thing, to head for Willow Valley and hope someone found him before he died.

  Nor was the trail one often traveled. Outlaws like those who shot him infested this country. Few people wanted to go to Horse Springs, so the desert was avoided. He had taken this road for that purpose, never dreaming that Joe Creet would guess the route he had chosen.

  It had been Creet, of course, who shot him. Larane had heard his jeering voice in the momentary space that separated the shots.

  He had seen the three riders from the Saxon Hills in one fleeting glimpse as he tumbled from the saddle, and he would not soon forget their faces. Joe Creet, Indian Frank, and Gay Tomason.

  Trouble had been building for some time between Creet and himself, but it was Tomason’s presence there that surprised him. An expression of cold triumph was on the man’s face as he lifted his gun.

  Joe Creet’s motive was obvious enough. The outlaw had always hated him. Only six weeks ago he had given Creet a beating that left marks still visible on the man’s face. Moreover, Creet must have learned about Marta Malone’s money, which he had been carrying.

  But Tomason?

  Gay had been his friend, they had ridden together, worked together, come west together.

  The answer to that was Marta. With him out of the running, Gay would have the inside track with her. With no other eligible men around, Gay would probably win her. For a long time Brett Larane had been aware of Gay’s interest in the girl, but he had never believed it would go this far.

  Larane was a quiet man, tall and strong, and given to deep, abiding loyalties and lasting friendships.

  It would have been Gay who told Creet what trail he was to take. Creet could have trailed him, but could not have been lying in wait for him as he had been, so Tomason must have told Creet or even led him to the spot. Yet with both men, and with Indian Frank, who followed wherever Creet led, the motive lay deeper than these more obvious things.

  No one needed to tell Brett Larane of the seriousness of his position. In this heat a man without water, by resting in the shade at all times, might live from two to five days. Traveling by night and resting in the shade by day, he might live from one to three days, and might make twenty miles. And twenty miles would leave him exactly nowhere.

  Yet if he was to survive, he must make an effort. Here in the shade of Rattlesnake Butte he could not afford to wait. Time was precious, and he must move on. And well he knew that all of those calculations on time and distance concerned a man in the full flower of health, and he was wounded and weak.

  For the time at least, he must wait. To start in the sun would finish him within a few miles at most.

  Sweat trickled down his face, and he fanned himself weakly with his hat. He felt faint and sick now, all his rugged strength seeming to drain away. He tried not to think of the thirst that was already drying his throat and cracking his parched lips. He thought of Marta Malone, and the Hidden Valley Ranch.

  It was a small ranch, lonely and yet beautiful, nestling in the shoulder of the mountains that somebody had named Hidden Valley. A pleasant place, a place where he had thought to live out his life with Marta.

  That had been his one thought, ever since he drifted into the Valley of the Sun and went to work for her, first as a puncher, and then when they all quit, as foreman of a ranch without hands. But he had worked on. He had dammed the spring and formed a pool, he had repaired the house and built an adobe barn. He had broken fifteen wild horses, branded cattle, and kept at it, doing everything possible without thought of reward.

  Hiring some drifting cowhands, he had taken her herd to the stock pens at Horse Springs and sold them to a stock buyer for a good price, the first returns that Marta had won from the ranch since her father died. And then he had been robbed.

  The worst of it was, they would probably tell her he had run off with her money, and she would have little choice but to believe them.

  His head throbbed with dull pain, and the angry teeth of a more raw and bitter pain gnawed at his wounded side. He knew that his wounds should be washed and cleansed, but he had no water, and there was nothing he could do.

  The day drew on and the band of shadow in which he sat narrowed. The stifling heat danced upon the far length of the desert. Dust devils moved in a queer rigadoon across the levels. Heat beat down upon him, but at last his eyes closed and he slept, his face greasy with sweat, his body stiff with the torture from his wounds.

  A buzzard circled in the sky, and then another came near, and a long time later Brett opened his eyes. Weakly, he pushed himself erect, staring with dazed eyes over the gathering of shadows around him, and the red-and-gold-tipped peaks of the far-off mountains. It would soon be time to move.

  Automatically, he felt for his gun. One shot, and then he would need to worry no more. Just one, and then no more pain, no more trouble. Yet even as he thought of it he remembered the beauty of Marta, awaiting him in the doorway at Hidden Valley, her hand shading her eyes, then a smile, and she would come running down the steps. In these past months they had drawn very close to one another.

  He looked down at the gun. They had left him that, never guessing he would have the chance to use it again, and he might not.

  Mart
a needed that money. Her whole existence at Hidden Valley depended on it. Only his efforts had enabled her to gather the cattle and get them on the road to market. Without him and the money she could do nothing. And because he had trusted Gay, she would trust him.

  Brett Larane felt with a thick and fumbling tongue for the parched and cracked lips. Then he got a fingerhold in a crevice of the rock and looked out at the desert. The sun was gone now, and a vague coolness seemed to drift over the desert. He turned and braced himself, gathering his strength. Then he pushed away from the cliff and began to walk.

  He was weak, but he kept his eyes on the mountains and moved along steadily. When he had walked a half mile he paused and seated himself carefully on a rock, resting. Nearby there was a mesquite root that would do for a cane. After ten minutes he got up and started on.

  Darkness closed around him and he kept moving. Once, far off over the desert, he heard a coyote howl, and once a rabbit scurried by him, dodging away through the rocks and cholla.

  He walked on and on, resting at intervals, but continuing to push on. Once, he stumbled and was too weak to rise for a long time. So he lay sprawled out on the desert, his body deliciously cool and relaxed even while his throat burned with thirst.

  When he opened his eyes the sky was faintly gray in the east. He struggled to his feet and started on.

  Now he must find shelter from the sun. He must find something, somehow, nearby. He would make no more than a couple of miles at his present pace before the sun was up. Yet there was nothing in sight and he pushed on. Suddenly the face of the desert was broken by the sandy scar of a wash. It came down from low hills, and he followed along the lip, walking away from his trail, for often along a wash one might find water.

  The sun was looking over the horizon when he glimpsed the green of a cottonwood. His tongue was swollen, but felt thick and dry. He pushed on, then hearing a noise in the brush close to the base of the slim young cottonwood, he halted and, creeping closer, peered through.

  Two porcupines were digging industriously into the sand, and he waited for a minute, watching, and then seeing damp sand being scraped from the hole they were digging, he moved up and drove them away.

  Water!

  He fell on his knees and dug eagerly into the damp sand at the bottom of the hole, and soon it grew sloppy and muddy, and then he sat back, letting the water seep through into the hole. It was still muddy when he cupped his hand into it and lifted it to his lips. He managed to get a swallow, then moistened his lips and tongue with his damp hand.

  All day he waited beside the hole, drinking from time to time, and resting in the flimsy shade of the cottonwood. Toward dusk he bathed his head and face. Then he bathed the raw wound in his side. Having nothing with which to bandage it, he took some green leaves, dipped them in water, and bound them on, using his handkerchief for a compress and a pigging string from his hip pocket to secure the makeshift dressing.

  He was picking up his cane to go when he heard a movement in the brush. He froze, and his gun slid into his hand. There was the sound of a horse’s hoof striking stone, and then the brush was thrust apart and a horse walked through, a horse with an empty saddle!

  His heart gave a leap. “Buck!” he gasped joyfully. “Well, I’ll be darned!”

  The horse jerked his head up and stopped. He spoke again, and the animal thrust a wary nose out toward him, sniffing curiously of his hand, but not liking the smell of blood that lingered in the air. Brett got his hand on the bridle and led the horse to the small spring, scarcely more than a bucket of water in sight.

  Obviously, the horse had escaped, running away when Brett was fired upon, and then the animal, probably headed toward home and browsing along the way, had smelled water. When the horse had drunk, Brett Larane pulled himself into the saddle and started for the trail.

  As he rode he studied his situation. He was very weak, and the distance he had to go was great. Yet by resting from time to time he believed he could make it if the wound in his side did not again begin to bleed.

  It was not only essential that he arrive at the ranch but that he reach it in condition to act. He had no doubt that if Gay Tomason and Creet were not already there, they soon would be. There was no aid anywhere near for Marta, even if she wished to protest whatever steps they might take. But the chances were that Tomason would go to her as a friend. And even if she knew much of what Joe Creet and Indian Frank were, she had believed that Tomason was a friend.

  Darkness was falling when Brett rode the buckskin off the trail into the piñons along the mountainside. Buck pulled against his guiding hand, wanting the home corral and the feed that awaited him there. But Brett rode him up through the trees, skirting along a dim cattle trail until he could come down upon the Hidden Valley Ranch from behind, riding down through the aspens.

  A light shone from the window of the small ranch house, and his eyes narrowed with thought as he saw another light come on in his own cabin, which had formerly served as the bunkhouse. They were there, then. Tomason was there, and probably Creet.

  They had Marta’s money, and now they wanted her ranch, and probably her.

  He wondered if Tomason had thought of Creet and the girl. With his shrewd eyes, Brett had long been aware of Creet’s desire for the girl, and he had watched the man speculatively appraising Marta on more than one occasion. Tomason, for all his gun skill, was no match for Creet.

  The outlaw was a cold-blooded killer, and he was a deadly hand with a six-gun. Only Brett Larane might match him in gunplay, and of that fact only two men were aware—Larane himself, and Joe Creet.

  Creet knew that Larane had a reputation in Hays and Tascosa, a fact unknown to Tomason or to any of the others in the Valley of the Sun country or the Saxon Hills. Larane had backed down the Catfish Kid on two occasions, and Jesse Evans, Billy the Kid’s former pal and later enemy, had backed down for him. In that tough and hard-bitten crowd that included Hendry Brown, Frank Valley, and Dave Rudabaugh, Brett Larane had been left strictly alone.

  Two things he must do now. He must at all costs recover the money for Marta, and he must kill Joe Creet and Gay Tomason.

  Had he been a well man, he might have handled the situation without gunfire. But in his present shape, with no knowledge of how long he would be around, he dared take no chances. If he did not live, he must be sure that the others died. And he must be sure that if he was to be sick or crippled, none of the three were around to take advantage of his and the girl’s helplessness.

  He knew the risk he was taking, but at all costs he had to have water. He had ridden for hours now without a drink, and the water earlier had scarcely been sufficient to refresh him after his long thirst. Moreover, he must know who was at the ranch, and what was happening there.

  Leaving the buckskin tethered in the aspens, he moved carefully toward the ranch house.

  At the spring he lowered himself to the ground and drank long and deeply. Lifting his head, he studied the situation with care, then turned toward the bunkhouse. He must first know who was on the grounds. At a window, flattened against the side of the building, he glanced within.

  Joe Creet was hunched over the table, and Indian Frank sat on the edge of a bunk. Gay Tomason was tipped back against the wall in a chair. “What I say”—Tomason was speaking—“is we split the money now. Then you hombres take a good-sized herd and leave me here. That’s fair enough.”

  Creet’s dry chuckle was a warning to Brett Larane, who knew his man, but Gay saw nothing in it. “Sure, that’s fair enough,” Joe agreed, “in fact, that’s more than fair. But who wants to be fair?”

  Tomason’s smile faded. “Well, let’s have your idea, then!” he demanded sharply. “I’ve stated my case.”

  “My idea?” Creet chuckled again, and his small black eyes were pinned on Tomason with contempt. “I want the money, and the girl.”

  Tomason’s chair legs hit the floor, his face was dark with angry blood. “She’s mine!” he said furiously. “She’s in love w
ith me, and she wants me! She doesn’t enter into this!”

  “Doesn’t she?” Creet sneered. “I say she does. I’d kill”—he stared at Tomason—“for a woman like that as quick as for money. I’d even kill you, Gay.”

  Their eyes held, and Brett watched, fascinated. He saw what was in Creet’s mind, and he could sense the evil triumph within the man at this moment. Joe Creet liked nothing and hated everything. He was a man eaten by a cancer of jealousy and hatred, and now he was savoring his triumph over the handsome Gay Tomason.

  “So? That’s the way it is?” Larane knew what Tomason was going to do. The man did have courage, of a kind, and now he laughed suddenly. “Why, I might have guessed you’d never play fair with any man, Joe! I might have known that as soon as I helped you put Brett out of the way, I would come next.

  “I see things different, myself. I wouldn’t kill for any woman. You can have her. Now, if you like.”

  Tomason chuckled as he finished speaking, and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Let’s forget her and split the money. If you insist on Marta, there’s no reason for me staying around.”

  “Sure.” Joe Creet got up slowly, smiling with hard eyes. “I think that’s just what I’ll do. Go up an’ see her now.” He turned on his heel with a last sneering glance at Gay, and stepped toward the door.

  It was a trap, but Tomason was too intent on his own subterfuge, for as Creet’s back turned to him Gay Tomason went for his gun and started to his feet in the same moment. And then Indian Frank buried his knife to the haft in the back of Tomason’s neck!

  The big cowhand gasped, his mouth opening and closing. He tried to lift his gun. But at the grunt of Indian Frank as he drove home the knife, Creet wheeled like a cat and shattered Gay’s wrist with a sweeping blow of his gun barrel. Tomason’s gun crashed to the floor, and the cowhand stood swaying, then his knees buckled under him, and he went down. Deliberately, Creet kicked him in the stomach, then the face.