The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 Page 14

  “Got to hand it to him,” Cordell was saying. “Morgan has plenty of nerve, and I’ve never seen a faster hand with a gun. Why, that day on the trail he could have got me sure as shootin’ if I’d moved a hand. I’d lay odds he’d have gotten three or maybe all of us.”

  “Speaking of fast hands,” said another voice, “what about that Jed Blue?”

  “He’s good, all right. Bob Carr never knew what hit him. You know, that Blue puzzles me. Where did he come from? Why did he tie in with Morgan? He claims he was in here with Kit Carson, but I know the name of everyone who ever rode with Kit, and none of them was named Blue.”

  Somebody laughed. “You always use the same name, Jeff? I doubt if Childs has a single rider who uses his real name. Hell, we’ve all had our ups and downs.”

  “What will come of it, Jeff?” asked the other voice.

  “Morgan will be killed. You can’t beat Childs. If he doesn’t want a man in the country, he doesn’t stay. Jed Blue will get it, too.”

  “Why? What’s his idea?”

  “Don’t try. Don’t even think about it. You’re getting twice a regular cowhand’s wages, so just do what you’re told and keep your trap shut. Childs knows why, and Brewer knows. Personally, I think the two of them are land-hungry. This is good country, and they want to control it. Can’t blame ’em for that.”

  Aloma had gone on to her room, and after she undressed and got into bed she could not sleep. What she had overheard disturbed her. There was a plot against Rod Morgan, just as Rod had implied. Childs did want him killed.

  Why, Henry Childs was the wealthiest rancher anywhere around! Why would he be involved in such things? Mark Brewer and Em Shipton both spoke so highly of him, but on the other hand, who was it who gave her the first doubts about Rod? It had been Em Shipton and Mark Brewer.

  Loma Day decided she must talk to Jed Blue. She recalled that he had defended Rod that day on the stage. Had he known him then? No … he had not. She remembered his comments at the time she recognized Rod.

  It was the next day she saw Henry Childs for the first time.

  She was talking to Jeff Cordell, for after overhearing the conversation in the dining room she had decided she must cultivate him and learn what he knew.

  “Did you ever kill a man, Jeff?”

  He looked at her quickly. “Why, I reckon I have, ma’am. I suppose there are a good many of us who have killed a man or two, not that we want to or are looking for it. These are rough times, ma’am, and a man can’t always look to the law to defend him. He has to do it himself. Out here the law expects a man to do just that.”

  “How about that day on the trail when Rod Morgan killed Reuben Hart?”

  Jeff gave her a sharp look. He knew enough of the gossip to know Loma had come west to marry Morgan. He also knew that now Mark Brewer was riding herd on the girl. He had his own opinion of Brewer, and it was not flattering. Jeff Cordell had rustled a few head here and there, and occasionally stood a stage on its ear for drinking money, but he had a wholesome respect for a decent woman.

  “Ma’am, there’s some would have my hide for saying this, but you asked an honest question, and you’ll get an honest answer. If Rod Morgan had been a mite slower to shoot that day, he would have been killed. Reuben Hart was sent out there to kill him.”

  “Sent? By whom?”

  Jeff Cordell had talked all he planned to. He was turning to leave when the door opened and a big man with white hair came into the room. He glanced at Jeff and then at her.

  “Cordell,” he said sharply, “they need you at the ranch.”

  “Yes, sir. I was just leaving.”

  He tipped his hat and walked quickly away. Loma knew instinctively that this was Henry Childs. He was not a bit as she had expected. He was a big, kindly looking man with white hair and gray eyes. His mouth was unusually small and his lips thin, but he was a handsome man.

  Cordell turned at the door. “Boss?”

  Childs turned sharply, impatience showing in every line of his face. “Cordell, I—”

  “Boss, I found out who that other man was. The one we saw the other day. His handle is Josh Shipton.”

  Loma’s eyes were on Childs, and she was shocked by the change. His mouth started to open, his features stiffened, and for a moment she thought he was about to have a stroke.

  Childs seemed no longer aware of her presence. For an instant his face became cruel and harsh. “Jeff, tell Mark I want to see him. Find him now, and tell him. Now, do you hear?”

  Em Shipton bustled into the room. “Did I hear somebody use the name of Shipton?”

  “Yes,” Loma said as Childs left, “it was Jeff Cordell. He said he’d seen a man named Josh Shipton.”

  “Why, that no-account blatherskite! I thought he was dead! If I get my hands on him, I’ll—!”

  She left the room suddenly, breaking off in mid-sentence.

  Loma went out to the wide porch and sat in one of the rockers, spreading her skirt carefully. Too many things were happening too suddenly; there were too many tangled threads and too much that demanded explanation. Whatever else Cordell might be, she felt he was being honest with her, and she now doubted that any of the others were.

  She must somehow arrange to talk to Jed Blue. That he had been to town several times since Morgan had killed Dally Hart, she knew. From where she sat she could see him if he returned to town today, and she meant to be ready.

  She had been a fool to let Rod go away thinking she was promised to Mark Brewer. He had proposed, but she had not accepted. She had simply told him she needed time, that everything was so mixed up, that he would have to wait.

  Fortunately, it cost little to room and board at Em Shipton’s, and she had a little money left. Not enough to go home, but enough to go on to Denver. She had considered that, but nothing could make her forget Rod.

  It was two days later that she saw Blue ride into town. He always avoided the Gem Saloon, where he might run into enemies, going straight to the supply store and buying what he needed. She was becoming sufficiently attuned to western life to see that he was always careful before entering or leaving a building. Now she saw him come out of the store and start for his horse.

  No one was about, so she arose, walking down the trail toward the old well, where she occasionally went. Once out of sight of the boarding house, she caught up her skirt to keep from tripping and ran down the path. Panting and somewhat disheveled, she arrived at the trail edge just as he appeared.

  She stepped into plain sight and waited until he rode up to her. “Mr. Blue? I must talk to you.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced around quickly, then walked his horse into the bushes across the trail, and she followed. She was surprised to find a small, rustic footbridge across the creek, and an old millpond, the mill no longer in use.

  Quickly, she told him what she had learned, even Childs’s shock on hearing of Josh Shipton. Blue chuckled grimly at that, and then she told him of Cordell’s certainty that Rod would be killed.

  “Mr. Blue, how is Rod? Oh, I wish I had it all to do over! I was such a fool! But it was all so different from what I’d known. I just wish I had listened to what you said on the stage.”

  “Rod’s coming along all right, ma’am. I’m just afraid this trouble’s all coming to a head before we’re ready for it.

  “You say that when Childs heard about Shipton he sent for Brewer? Now what do you know about that?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ma’am, you had better keep clear of Mark Brewer. As long as you know so much you’d better know this, too. Somebody has been doin’ Childs’s killin’ for him, and I know he wants Shipton dead, so who does he send for? Mark Brewer!”

  “Oh, no! You must be mistaken!” Even as she said it she remembered the gun. “Mr. Blue, I do know this, when he told Rod that he didn’t carry a gun, he lied. He wears one in a shoulder holster.”

  Blue was pleased. “Now, then, ma
’am, that’s the best news you’ve given me so far. That little item might save my life or Rod’s.”

  “Why should Mr. Childs want Josh Shipton killed?”

  Jed Blue hesitated. “There’s the question behind this whole affair. Only two men know what happened in Buckskin Run when that gold vanished. One of them was Henry Childs; the other one is Josh Shipton.”

  He smiled widely. “Trouble is, for them at least, that a third one has figured it out, and I’m the third.

  “Ma’am, you go back and tell them you met a man on the road, and don’t describe me, who told you to tell them that Tarran Kopp is back.”

  She was seated in the small sitting room at the boarding house when Mark Brewer came in. Before she could speak he went on up to his room, and when he returned he was dressed for the trail. He walked over and sat down beside her.

  “I hear you met Henry Childs. Quite a fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He’s big,” she admitted, “and a fine-looking man.” Then, giving her face a puzzled expression, she asked, “Mark, who is Tarran Kopp?”

  If she had expected a reaction she was not disappointed. He started as if stung, grabbing her wrist in a grip that hurt. “Who? Where did you hear that name?”

  “Please don’t! You’re hurting me!” She rubbed her wrist as he released it. “Why, it was nothing at all!” She spoke carelessly. “I get so restless here, so I took a walk over by that old mill, it is so quiet and peaceful there, and I met a man. He was very polite.

  “Actually, he was just watering his horse there at the millpond, and he asked me if I wasn’t living at Em Shipton’s. I told him I was, and he asked me to tell Henry Childs that Tarran Kopp was back.”

  Mark Brewer got to his feet. “He said Kopp was back? What did he look like?”

  “Oh, he was just a man. As tall as you, I think, but spare. He was riding a black horse.” The horse Jed Blue had been riding was a blue roan.

  “This changes everything,” Brewer muttered, talking more to himself than her.

  “Who is Tarran Kopp? What is he?”

  “Oh, he was just an outlaw who was active out here fifteen or twenty years ago. It’s believed he was the one who robbed those wagons you’ve heard about.”

  He turned toward the door. “Look, if Henry Childs comes in, tell him what you just told me, will you? And tell him I need to see him.”

  Before noon, Rod Morgan reached the basin. After lying among the rocks for about twenty minutes while studying the terrain to be sure he was unobserved, he went down to the edge of the pool and, putting his rifle down beside him, he began to cast with the heavy iron hook. He would cast the hook as far out as possible, let it sink to the bottom, and slowly drag it back to him.

  He worked steadily, tirelessly, taking occasional breaks to study the country around. He was well into his third hour, without finding anything but broken branches or moss, when the hook snagged on something. Twice it slid off before it held, and then hand over hand he drew in his catch.

  A wagon tire!

  An iron wagon tire, showing evidence of having been subjected to heat. So then, they must have burned the wagons, thrown the metal parts into the pool, and … what about the gold?

  He was squatting beside the wagon tire when he heard the sharp, ugly bark of a rifle.

  He hit the ground in a dive from his squat, grabbed his rifle, and rolled over behind a rock. He was lying, waiting for another shot, when he realized the bullet had come nowhere near him.

  Starting to lift his head he heard two more shots, quick, sharp, fired only a breath apart.

  Stones rattled, a larger one plopped into the basin, and then Rod caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s body falling. There was a terrific splash, and the body sank from sight.

  Peering up, he saw a shadowy outline, a man’s figure, atop the cliff, peering down. Then the shadow disappeared and, jerking off his boots and gunbelt, Morgan went into the water. Its icy chill wrenched a gasp from his throat, and then he saw the body, only it was not merely a body but a man, still struggling to live.

  Diving low, he slipped an arm around the man’s body and struck out for the surface. It was a struggle to get him to the surface and out upon the shore, and the man was bleeding badly.

  It was Josh Shipton, and one look at the wound in his side and Rod knew there was no chance.

  Shipton’s lids fluttered. “B—Brew—Brewer dry-gul—dry-gulched me.” He waved a feeble arm. “Childs—gold—Childs.” He seemed to be trying to point toward the graves; or was it only one grave?

  Brewer had killed him, but what had he been trying to say? At what had he pointed? Or was it only a wild gesture from a dying man?

  Horse’s hooves pounded on the sod, a racing horse. Rod wheeled, rifle ready. It was Jed Blue.

  “You all right? I heard shots.” Then he saw Shipton. “Ah? So Brewer got him.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Blue explained what Loma had told him, and what she overheard. He also added the bit about Mark Brewer’s shoulder holster.

  “What made Childs so afraid of Shipton?”

  “They were afraid of what he knew. Shipton knew all three of the men buried there, and if he saw Henry Childs he would smell a rat, and rat is right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shipton was trying to point at one of the graves. The grave of Harry Kidd.”

  “Kidd? Childs? Are you telling me Kidd didn’t die? That there’s nobody in that grave?”

  “Kidd murdered the other two, cached the gold, marked the graves so people would grow superstitious about them, then left the country. Coming back later, he started a ranch and helped spread the stories about the ghosts of Buckskin Run.”

  “Smart,” Rod admitted.

  “Except for one thing. He accused the wrong man of the murders. He spread the story around that the three had been killed and the gold stolen by Tarran Kopp.

  “Kopp killed a few men here and there, but all in fair fights. He never murdered a man in his life, and that story made him mad. I know, because I am Tarran Kopp.”

  From far down the canyon they heard a thunder of racing hooves, a wild cry, and then a shot. Both men turned, rifles lifting.

  A small black horse was coming toward them on a dead run, and they could see a girl’s long hair streaming in the wind. Behind her, still some distance away, a tight group of racing horsemen.

  “It’s Loma!” Rod said. “And the Block C riders!”

  Dropping to one knee, he opened up with his Winchester. A rider threw up his arms and dropped from his horse, and the group split, scattering out across the small plain.

  The black horse swung in toward their position and was reined in. Loma slid from the horse’s back into Rod’s arms. The black horse wheeled and raced off a few yards, tossing its head with excitement.

  “Never figured on making a stand here,” Rod said. “Jed? Have you got enough ammunition?”

  “Plenty. How about you?”

  “The same … there’s one behind that spruce!”

  He fired as he spoke and the man cried out, staggering into the open where a bullet from Jed put him down.

  Bullets spattered on the rocks around them, but their position in the small basin around the pool was excellent. A man could stand erect alongside the pool and still be under cover. A ring of boulders almost surrounded the pool, and a stream of them fanned out downslope from them where the attackers were.

  Rod turned to Loma. “Can you fire a rifle?”

  “Just give me a chance! My father taught me to shoot when I was a little girl. Only, I—I never shot a man.”

  “You won’t get much chance here. Those boys are pretty well snuckered down now, and they aren’t about to get themselves killed. Just fire a shot in that general direction once in a while.

  “Jed, I’m going to circle around and try to get whoever is leading this bunch. My guess is it will be Brewer.”

  “Or Childs. Don’t forget him.”

 
Rod slid back to lower ground, wormed his way through some brush, and descended into a small wash. All of this was on land he claimed, and over which he had ridden many times. He knew every inch of it.

  There had been no more than eight or ten men in the original group, and at least two were out of action. Unless he was mistaken, the Block C boys had enough. Their loyalty was largely money loyalty, and nobody wants to die for a dollar, at least nobody in his right mind.

  He moved swiftly and silently along the sandy bottom, his boots making no sound in the soft sand. He was rounding a boulder when he heard a voice. It was Mark Brewer.

  “Think we’ve got ’em, Henry?”

  “Got ’em? Oh, sure! We’ll finish them off, send the boys home, and dig up that gold. It’s high time we dug it up. Something always kept me from going after it before. Price on gold has gone up, so we’ll have more money, Mark.”

  “You mean,” Brewer’s voice was so low Rod could scarcely hear, “I’ll have more!”

  Through an opening in the rocks, Rod could see them now. He saw the surprise and shock on Childs’s face turn to horror as Brewer drew a gun on him.

  “Very simple, Henry. I’ve been waiting for this chance. I’ll have it all for myself, and everybody will blame Morgan and Kopp for killing you.”

  Childs’s hand went to his holster, but it was empty. “Don’t bother, Henry. I’m making it easy for you. I lifted your gun then waited until your rifle was empty. Now I’ll kill you, let the boys finish off Morgan and Kopp, and I get the gold.”

  The two men faced each other across ten feet of green grass, cut off from view of the Block C riders by trees and boulders and over fifty yards of distance.

  Childs’s small mouth tightened until it was scarcely visible. He was sullen and wary. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ve had it coming. I murdered good men for that gold and never got a penny’s worth of it. Now you’ll murder me. Of course, we’re going out together.”

  His hand flashed in movement, and Mark Brewer’s .44 roared. Childs swayed like a tree in the wind but kept his feet. In the palm of his hand was a small derringer. He fired, and then again.

  Brewer’s gun was roaring, but his last bullets were kicking up sand at Childs’s feet. He went to his knees, then down to his face in the bloody sand.