The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7 Page 16

  “Thanks, Cat,” Rock replied simply, miserably. “Thanks a lot, but you’re wrong. I am yellow.”

  “Reckon it takes pretty much of a man to say that, son. But from what I hear you sure didn’t act it against Pete an’ his riders. You walloped the tar out of them!”

  “With my hands it’s different. It’s—it’s—guns.”

  McLeod was silent. He poked a twig into the fire and relighted his pipe.

  “Ever kill a man, son?” His eyes probed Rock’s, and he saw the young rider’s head nod slowly. “Who was it? How’d it happen?”

  “It was—” He looked up, his face drawn and pale. “I killed my brother, Cat.”

  McLeod was shocked. His old eyes went wide. “You killed your brother? Your own brother?”

  Rock Casady nodded. “Yeah,” he said bitterly, “my own brother. The one person in this world that really mattered to me!”

  Cat stared, and then slowly his brow puckered. “Son,” he said, “why don’t you tell me about it? Get it out of your system, like.”

  For a long while Rock was silent. Then he started to speak.

  “It was down in Texas. We had a little spread down there, Jack and me. He was only a shade older, but always protectin’ me, although I sure didn’t need it. The finest man who ever walked, he was.

  “Well, we had us a mite of trouble, an’ this here Ben Kerr was the ringleader. I had trouble with Ben, and he swore to shoot me on sight. I was a hand with a gun, like you know, an’ I was ready enough to fight, them days. One of the hands told me, an’ without a word to Jack, I lit into the saddle an’ headed for town.

  “Kerr was a gunslick, but I wasn’t worried. I knew that I didn’t have scarcely a friend in town an’ that his whole outfit would be there. It was me against them, an’ I went into town with two guns an’ sure enough on the prod.

  “It was gettin’ late when I hit town. A man I knowed told me Ben was around with his outfit and that nobody was goin’ to back me one bit, them all bein’ scared of Ben’s boys. He told me, too, that Ben Kerr would shoot me in the back as soon as not, he bein’ that kind.

  “I went huntin’ him. Kidlike, an’ never in no fight before, I was jumpy, mighty jumpy. The light was bad. All of a sudden, I saw one of Ben’s boys step out of a door ahead of me. He called out, ‘Here he is, Ben! Take him!’ Then I heard runnin’ feet behind me, heard ’em slide to a halt, an’ I wheeled, drawin’ as I turned, an’ fired.” His voice sank to a whisper.

  Cat, leaning forward, said, “You shot? An’ then …?”

  “It was Jack. It was my own brother. He’d heard I was in town alone, an’ he come runnin’ to back me up.”

  Cat McLeod stared up at the young man, utterly appalled. In his kindly old heart he could only guess at the horror that must have filled Casady, then scarcely more than a boy, when he had looked down into that still, dead face and seen his brother.

  “Gosh, son.” He shook his head in amazed sympathy. “It ain’t no wonder you hate gunfights! It sure ain’t! But …?” He scowled. “I still don’t see….” His voice trailed away.

  Rock drew a deep breath. “I sold out then and left the country. Went to ridin’ for an outfit near El Paso. One night I come into town with the other hands, an’ who do I run into but Ben Kerr? He thought I’d run because I was afraid of him, an’ he got tough. He called me—right in front of the outfit. I was goin’ to draw, but all I could see there in front of me was Jack, with that blue hole between his eyes! I turned and ran.”

  Cat McLeod stared at Rock and then into the fire. It was no wonder, he reflected. He probably would have run, too. If he had drawn he would have been firing on the image of the brother. It would have been like killing him over again.

  “Son,” he said slowly, “I know how you feel, but stop a minute an’ think about Jack, this brother of yours. He always protected you, you say. He always stood up for you. Now don’t you suppose he’d understand? You thought you was all alone in that town. You’d every right in the world to think that was Ben Kerr behind you. I would have thought so, an’ I wouldn’t have wasted no time shootin’, neither.

  “You can’t run away from yourself. You can’t run no further. Someday you got to stand an’ face it, an’ it might as well be now. Look at it like this: Would your brother want you livin’ like this? Hunted an’ scared? He sure wouldn’t! Son, ever’ man has to pay his own debt an’ live his own life. Nobody can do it for you, but if I was you, I’d sort of figure my brother was dead because of Ben Kerr, an’ I’d stop runnin’!”

  Rock looked up slowly. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I see that plain. But what if when I stepped out to meet him, I look up an’ see Jack’s face again?”

  His eyes dark with horror, Rock Casady turned and plunged downstream, stumbling, swearing in his fear and loneliness and sorrow.

  AT DAYLIGHT, old Cat McLeod opened his eyes. For an instant, he lay still. Then he realized where he was and what he had come for, and he turned his head. Rock Casady, his gear and horse, were gone. Stumbling to his feet, McLeod slipped on his boots and walked out in his red flannels to look at the trail.

  It headed south, away from Three Lakes, and away from Ben Kerr. Rock Casady was running again.

  THE TRAIL SOUTH to the canyon was rough and rugged. The palouse was sure-footed and had a liking for the mountains, yet seemed undecided, as though the feeling persisted that he was going the wrong way.

  Casady stared bleakly ahead, but he saw little of the orange and red of the sandstone cliffs. He was seeing again Frank Stockman’s strong, kindly face and remembering his welcome at the Four Spoke. He was remembering Sue’s hand on his sleeve and her quick smile, and old Tom Bell, gnarled and worn with handling cattle and men. He drew up suddenly and turned the horse on the narrow trail. He was going back.

  “Jack,” he said suddenly aloud, “stick with me, boy. I’m sure goin’ to need you now!”

  SANDY KANE, grim lipped and white of face, dismounted behind the store. Beside him was Sue Landon.

  “Miss Sue,” he said, “you get that buyin’ done fast. Don’t let none of that Vorys crowd see you. They’ve sure taken this town over since they shot the boss.”

  “All right, Sandy.” She looked at him bravely and then squeezed the older man’s hand. “We’ll make it, all right.” Her blue eyes darkened. “I wish I’d been a man, Sandy.”

  The girl started to enter the store, but then caught the cowhand’s hand.

  “Sandy,” she said faintly, “look!”

  A tall man with broad shoulders had swung down before the store. He tied his horse with a slipknot and hitched his guns into place. Rock Casady, his hard young face bleak and desperate, stared carefully along the street.

  It was only three blocks long, this street. It was dusty and warm with the noonday sun. The gray-fronted buildings looked upon the dusty canal that separated them, and a few saddled horses stamped lazily, flicking their tails at casual flies. It was like that other street, so long ago.

  Casady pulled the flat brim of his black hat a little lower over his eyes. Inside he felt sick and faint. His mouth was dry. His tongue trembled when it touched his lips. Up the street a man saw him and got slowly to his feet, staring as if hypnotized. The man backed away and then dove into the Hackamore Saloon.

  Rock Casady took a deep breath, drew his shoulders back, and started slowly down the walk. He seemed in a trance where only the sun was warm and the air was still. Voices murmured. He heard a gasp of astonishment, for these people remembered that he had whipped Pete Vorys, and they knew what he had come for.

  He wore two guns now, having dug the other gun and belt from his saddlebags to join the one he had only worn in the mountains. A door slammed somewhere.

  BEN KERR STARED at the face of the man in the door of the saloon.

  “Ben, here comes that yellow-backed Casady! And he’s wearin’ a gun!”

  “He is, is he?” Kerr tossed off his drink. “Fill that up, Jim! I’ll be right back. This will only ta
ke a minute!”

  He stepped out into the street. “Come to get it this time?” he shouted tauntingly. “Or are you runnin’ again?”

  Rock Casady made no reply. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the boardwalk, and he strode slowly, finishing the walk at the intersecting alley, stepping into the dust and then up on the walk again.

  Ben Kerr’s eyes narrowed slightly. Some sixth sense warned him that the man who faced him had subtly changed. He lifted his head a little and stared. Then he shrugged off the feeling and stepped out from the building.

  “All right, yellabelly! If you want it!” His hand swept down in a flashing arc and his gun came up.

  Rock Casady stared down the street at the face of Ben Kerr, and it was only the face of Kerr. In his ear was Jack’s voice: “Go ahead, kid! Have at it!”

  Kerr’s gun roared and he felt the hot breath of it bite at his face. And then suddenly, Rock Casady laughed! Within him all was light and easy, and it was almost carelessly that he stepped forward. Suddenly the .44 began to roar and buck in his hand, leaping like a live thing within his grasp. Kerr’s gun flew high in the air, his knees buckled, and he fell forward on his face in the dust.

  Rock Casady turned quickly toward the Hackamore. Pete Vorys stood in the door, shocked to stillness.

  “All right, Pete! Do you want it or are you leavin’ town?”

  Vorys stared from Kerr’s riddled body to the man holding the gun.

  “Why, I’m leavin’ town!” Vorys said. “That’s my roan, right there. I’ll just …” As though stunned, he started to mount, and Rock’s voice arrested him.

  “No, Pete. You walk. You hoof it. And start now!”

  The bully of Three Lakes wet his lips and stared. Then his eyes shifted to the body in the street.

  “Sure, Rock,” he said, taking a step back. “I’ll hoof it.” Turning, stumbling a little, he started to walk. As he moved, his walk grew swifter and swifter as though something followed in his tracks.

  Rock turned and looked up, and Sue Landon was standing on the boardwalk.

  “Oh, Rock! You came back!”

  “Don’t reckon I ever really left, Sue,” he said slowly. “My heart’s been right here all the time!”

  She caught his arm, and the smile in her eyes and on her lips was bright. He looked down at her.

  Then he said aloud. “Thanks, Jack!”

  She looked up quickly. “What did you say?”

  He grinned at her. “Sue,” he said, “did I ever tell you about my brother? He was one grand hombre! Someday, I’ll tell you.” They walked back toward the horses, her hand on his arm.

  The Black Rock Coffin Makers

  Jim Gatlin had been up the creek and over the mountains, and more than once had been on both ends of a six-shooter. Lean and tall, with shoulders wide for his height and a face like saddle leather, he was, at the moment, doing a workmanlike job of demolishing the last of a thick steak and picking off isolated beans that had escaped his initial attack. He was a thousand miles from home and knew nobody in the town of Tucker.

  He glanced up as the door opened and saw a short, thick-bodied man. The man gave one startled look at Jim and ducked back out of sight. Gatlin blinked in surprise, then shrugged and filled his coffee cup from the pot standing on the restaurant table.

  Puzzled, he listened to the rapidly receding pound of a horse’s hoofs, then rolled a smoke, sitting back with a contented sigh. Two hundred and fifty-odd miles to the north was the herd he had drifted up from Texas. The money the cattle had brought was in the belt around his waist and his pants pockets. Nothing remained now but to return to Texas, bank the profit, and pick up a new herd.

  The outer door opened again, and a tall girl entered the restaurant. Turning right, she started for the door leading to the hotel. She stopped abruptly as though his presence had only then registered. She turned, and her eyes widened in alarm. Swiftly, she crossed the room to him. “Are you insane?” she whispered. “Sitting here like that when the town is full of Wing Cary’s hands? They know you’re coming and have been watching for you for days!”

  Gatlin looked up, smiling. “Ma’am, you’ve sure got the wrong man, although if a girl as pretty as you is worried about him, he sure is a lucky fellow. I’m a stranger here. I never saw the place until an hour ago!”

  She stepped back, puzzled, and then the door slammed open once more, and a man stepped into the room. He was as tall as Jim, but thinner, and his dark eyes were angry. “Get away from him, Lisa! I’m killin’ him—right now!”

  The man’s hand flashed for a gun, and Gatlin dove sidewise to the floor, drawing as he fell. A gun roared in the room; then Gatlin fired twice.

  The tall man caught himself, jerking his left arm against his ribs, his face twisted as he gasped for breath. Then he wilted slowly to the floor, his gun sliding from his fingers.

  Gatlin got to his feet, staring at the stranger. He swung his eyes to the girl staring at him. “Who is that hombre?” he snapped. “What’s this all about? Who did he think I was?”

  “You—you’re not—you aren’t Jim Walker?” Her voice was high, amazed.

  “Walker?” He shook his head. “I’m sure as hell not. The name is Gatlin. I’m just driftin’ through.”

  There was a rush of feet in the street outside. She caught his hand. “Come! Come quickly! They won’t listen to you! They’ll kill you! All the Cary outfit are in town!”

  She ran beside him, dodging into the hotel, and then swiftly down a hall. As the front door burst open, they plunged out the back and into the alley behind the building. Unerringly, she led him to the left and then opened the back door of another building and drew him inside. Silently, she closed the door and stood close beside him, panting in the darkness.

  Shouts and curses rang from the building next door. A door banged, and men charged up and down outside. Jim was still holding his gun, but now he withdrew the empty shells and fed two into the cylinder to replace those fired. He slipped a sixth into the usually empty chamber. “What is this place?” he whispered. “Will they come here?”

  “It’s a law office,” she whispered. “I work here part-time, and I left the door open myself. They’ll not think of this place.” Stealthily, she lifted the bar and dropped it into place. “Better sit down. They’ll be searching the streets for some time.”

  He found the desk and seated himself on the corner, well out of line with the windows. He could see only the vaguest outline of her face. His first impression of moments before was strong enough for him to remember she was pretty. The gray eyes were wide and clear, her figure rounded yet slim. “What is this?” he repeated. “What was he gunnin’ for me for?”

  “It wasn’t you. He thought you were Jim Walker, of the XY. If you aren’t actually him, you look enough like him to be a brother, a twin brother.”

  “Where is he? What goes on here? Who was that hombre who tried to gun me down?”

  She paused, and seemed to be thinking, and he had the idea she was still uncertain whether to believe him or not. “The man you killed was Bill Trout. He was the badman of Paradise country and segundo on Wing Cary’s Flying C spread. Jim Walker called him a thief and a murderer in talking to Cary, and Trout threatened to shoot him on sight. Walker hasn’t been seen since, and that was four days ago, so everybody believed Walker had skipped the country. Nobody blamed him much.”

  “What’s it all about?” Gatlin inquired.

  “North of here, up beyond Black Rock, is Alder Creek country, with some rich bottom hay land lying in several corners of the mountains. This is dry country, but that Alder Creek area has springs and some small streams flowing down out of the hills. The streams flow into the desert and die there, so the water is good only for the man who controls the range.”

  “And that was Walker?”

  “No, up until three weeks ago, it was old Dave Butler. Then Dave was thrown from his horse and killed, and when they read his will, he had left the property to be sold at auction and the m
oney to be paid to his nephew and niece back in New York. However, the joker was, he stipulated that Jim Walker was to get the ranch if he would bid ten thousand cash and forty thousand on his note, payable in six years.”

  “In other words, he wanted Walker to have the property?” Jim asked. “He got first chance at it?”

  “That’s right. And I was to get second chance. If Jim didn’t want to make the bid, I could have it for the same price. If neither of us wanted it, the ranch was to go on public auction, and that means that Cary and Horwick would get it. They have the money, and nobody around here could outbid them.”

  The street outside was growing quieter as the excitement of the chase died down. “I think,” Lisa continued, “that Uncle Dave wanted Jim to have the property because Jim did so much to develop it. Jim was foreman of the XY acting for Dave. Then, Uncle Dave knew my father and liked me, and he knew I loved the ranch, so he wanted me to have second chance, but I don’t have the money, and they all know it. Jim had some of it, and he could get the rest. I think that was behind his trouble with Trout. I believe Wing deliberately set Trout to kill him, and Jim’s statements about Bill were a result of the pushing around Bill Trout had given him.”

  The pattern was not unfamiliar, and Gatlin could easily appreciate the situation. Water was gold in this country of sparse grass. To a cattleman, such a ranch as Lisa described could be second to none, with plenty of water and grass and good hay meadows. Suddenly, she caught his arm. Men were talking outside the door.

  “Looks like he got plumb away, Wing. Old Ben swears there was nobody in the room with him but that Lisa Cochrane, an’ she never threw that gun, but how Jim Walker ever beat Trout is more’n I can see. Why, Bill was the fastest man around here unless it’s you or me.”

  “That wasn’t Walker, Pete. It couldn’t have been!”

  “Ben swears it was, an’ Woody Hammer busted right through the door in front of him. Said it was Jim, all right.”