The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 17

  When he had eaten he rose to go, but Kubela motioned to him to sit down. “Stick around, kid,” he advised, and the suggestion had been an order. Deke Murphy, his heart pounding, had sat down. The shotgun lying across Kubela’s knees added emphasis to the command.

  Later, when he had dozed off, he opened his eyes enough to know the fourth man had returned. He overheard a few words. “His old man was a weak sister,” someone was saying, “the kid’s ma preached to him. I say we can’t trust him.”

  Wales’s protest was overruled, but then the fourth man spoke. “Keep him for now, we can use him. Get some sleep and we’ll move out early…. They may still be on my trail.”

  Although he waited and listened, Deke heard no more, and somewhere along the trail of his waiting, he fell asleep again. He awakened to a confusion of shots, and for one startled instant, he stared around wildly, then grabbed his boots and, tugging them on, made a break for his horse.

  Another man, a big man, came charging up, and he too grabbed at Deke’s horse. “That’s my horse!” Deke protested.

  The man turned half around, but in the darkness Deke Murphy could not see his face. “Shut up, you fool!” he snapped, and he slashed viciously at Deke with the barrel of his gun.

  It caught the boy a glancing blow across the skull and lights exploded in his brain. As he started to go down, he grabbed out and got a hand in the edge of the big man’s pocket. He jerked and the pocket ripped, and the man toppled back to the ground. He sprang up and aimed a vicious kick at the boy’s head, but Deke lunged to his feet and struck out hard. The blow landed, and Deke followed it in. His unknown antagonist smashed up with his right, and then the gun bellowed, fired by their struggles. With a curse of panic the man flung him off and sprang into the saddle. There was a rattle of hoofs and he was gone!

  An instant later a half-dozen men charged down on Deke. He was surrounded, searched, and taken away. Later, tried and convicted, he was sentenced to five years in the penitentiary for a holdup that had been committed the previous day. His stepfather’s record was known. He admitted his acquaintance with all the robbers but one, and his denials that he had any part in the holdup were laughed out of consideration.

  The man he sought was the leader of the band, the man who had stolen his horse and left him to be captured and sentenced to prison. His sole clue was a comment made by Kubela on that memorable night when half awake he heard them talking. Kubela had said, “The boss can ride, all right! He’s a top contest hand!” And it was that boss who had left him for the law, and while the posse was making him a prisoner, the actual outlaws escaped.

  Frank Wales, the only man who could have testified to his actual connection with the robbers, was now dead. He had escaped only to be killed near the ghost town of Hamilton two years before, resisting arrest.

  TIM CARSON SAUNTERED DOWN to the chutes and stopped near chute three where Deke Murphy was working. “You should be riding in this show, kid. There’s some good prizes!”

  “You know I’m broke,” Deke said sullenly. “How could I enter?”

  “Suppose I paid your entry fees?” Carson persisted. “Would you ride?”

  “You’re darn tootin’ I would!” Deke said. His eyes followed the leaders of the Grand Parade, looking enviously at Bill Bly riding beside Carol Bell. The girl’s eyes happened to turn his way, and she smiled. Deke felt his heart leap. “You loan me that money, mister! I’ll pay you back out of my winnin’s!”

  Carson watched the parade thoughtfully, and for a minute or two he did not speak. Then he said, “You’re entered, Murphy. I already paid your fees. You’re entered in every event, take what you want of them!”

  Deke stared, his eyes incredulous. “You mean, you—” He hesitated, uncertain what to say.

  “I like to see a kid get his chance,” Carson said, “an’ that in particular when he’s had bad breaks. You get on out there, let’s see you bust ’em wide open!”

  An hour later, hurrying up to Tim Carson’s place by the chute, Carol caught his arm. “Uncle Tim! Did you enter that boy in the rodeo? Did you?”

  Carson smiled gravely. “I sure did, honey, an’ if you want to gamble I’ll bet you he puts Bly in the shade!”

  Carol said nothing, her eyes following the young rider who was saddling the roping horse Carson had provided for him. “Uncle Tim, do you think he is one of those men who robbed that two hundred thousand dollars?”

  Carson took the pipe from his mouth. “Now where’d you get that idea? An’ whoever told you it was two hundred thousand?”

  “Bill did, but I got the idea from you. You’ve never let that old crime rest. I know it still bothers you.”

  “It does at that.” Carson returned his pipe to his teeth. “Carol, I hate crooks. I also hate like poison anyone who’ll let an innocent man do his time. You asked me if I thought Deke was one of them, an’ I’ll tell you: I know he wasn’t. But he’s been in prison for it, an’ I’ve a hunch he’s huntin’ the man who led that holdup—a man we know as Jud Kynell, one of the old bunch that hung out at the Roost.”

  “He was in prison?” Carol watched the young rider, her eyes serious. “Do you suppose—I mean, do you think he’s honest now? I—I know some men become thieves or worse while in jail.”

  “Honey, I think the boy’s honest. He wouldn’t take money from me without working for it.”

  Deke walked toward them, leading his horse. He grinned shyly at the girl. On impulse, Carol removed her handkerchief and handed it to him, then took it back and knotted it about his neck herself.

  “You need something that shows you’re riding for us now,” she said. “Good luck.” For a breathtaking instant they were very close, and as she pulled the knot into place, she looked up at him. His face was pale and he looked almost frightened.

  “Ma’am,” he said sincerely, “you watch me! I’ll kick the frost out of anything they’ve got—for you!”

  BEFORE THE CONTEST was more than a few minutes old the entire arena had awakened to the fact that out there on the tanbark a fierce duel was beginning, a duel between tall, powerful Bill Bly, and the unknown newcomer.

  “Ladies and gents! Billy Bly, star of rodeo and stock corral, makes his tie in eleven and six-tenths seconds!” Hobson, the announcer, drew a breath and then continued to bellow into the small end of his speaking trumpet. “That’s the fastest time so far today, and ties the record for this here arena!”

  He turned and waved a hand. “Now out of the chutes—Deke Murphy!”

  Carson’s horse was a sorrel streak, and Deke’s rope shot out like a thrown lance, the loop opening just as the calf dodged, and dropped over its head! Murphy stepped down as his horse put on the brakes, dropped to one knee alongside the calf, and made his tie. As he sprang back, dust rising from the bound calf, a gasp went over the arena.

  Hobson’s voice boomed out. “Well, folks! Now there’s a record! Deke Murphy at eleven and four-tenths seconds, to win the first go-around!”

  Amid cheers, Murphy swung into the saddle and cantered across to where Carol stood waiting with her uncle Tim and Bly. Bly looked up, the same cold expression in his eyes, his lips forcing a smile. “Nice going,” he commented, but his voice was flat.

  “Oh, Deke! You were wonderful!” Carol exclaimed.

  BLY WON THE STEER WRESTLING, with Deke a close second, and Red Roller, a big cowhand from Cheyenne, a tight third. In the Brahma riding, Deke came out on No. 66, an ugly mass of bull meat weighing all of two thousand pounds and a fighter as well as a rodeo veteran.

  He knew what he was out there for and he went at it with a will, buck-jumping and twisting his tail. Deke was hanging on for dear life and the bull was out to ditch him or die. Somehow, Deke stayed up until the whistle blew.

  He threw a leg over the bull’s back, hit the ground, and the bull swapped ends and came for him. The clowns rushed in with flapping cloaks and slapping hats to draw the animal’s attention. It sprang this way and that, trying desperately to get at its enemies,
not so much in torment as in sheer enjoyment of battle and lust for conquest.

  Deke limped back to the chute, grinning at Carol, his face dusty and a trickle of blood coming from his nose. “Rough!” he said, shaking his head.

  “You made a good ride,” Carson admitted. “Bly’s drawn Highbinder for the bronc riding.”

  “Who did I get?” Deke demanded, looking up quickly. Then he grinned wryly. “As if I didn’t know!”

  “Shadow,” Carson confessed, “you’ll be up on Shadow!”

  “Highbinder’s the worst horse,” Bly said casually. “Whoever heard of Shadow?”

  “I did.” Murphy clipped the words. “I’ve seen him buck. Highbinder won’t touch him.”

  “As if you knew,” sneered Bly, his eyes cold.

  “I do.” Deke snapped the words. “I rode him!”

  “What?” Bill Bly put an open hand to Deke’s chest and pushed, backing him up. “Why, you little liar! You—”

  Deke’s balled fist smashed him in the mouth and the big man staggered. Then Bly straightened, his eyes utterly vicious. “Now you’ve done the wrong thing!” he said. “I’ll beat your head in!”

  Bly rushed, swinging. His right was a long arc that encountered nothing but air. Deke Murphy rose inside of Bly’s arms and landed a series of short, wicked punches to the stomach and ribs. Bly clinched and hurled Deke back into the corral fence with sheer strength, then charged.

  Again Deke, working coolly, went under the blow, and again he smashed away at Bly’s ribs with those strength-sapping short punches. This time he ducked away before Bly could clinch, and when Bly swung a left, Deke caught it on his right forearm, and chopped down with a wicked punch to the big man’s chin.

  Bly blinked, he was bleeding from his split lips, and stared confusedly through the sweat and his hanging hair at the much shorter man.

  “You want some more?” Deke asked calmly. “Or have you had enough?”

  Deke looked him over coolly, then turned and walked away. As he drew near to Carol he paused. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want trouble!”

  Bly shook his head to clear it and stared after him. “Jailbird!” he sneered. “Highbinder was never rode but once! In prison!”

  Deke’s face was white and still. He turned, and his voice was low but clear. “That’s right,” he said, “that was where I rode him!”

  AS HE HEADED for the stable, staring grimly ahead, Deke passed close by two men whom he did not see. Jerry Haskell and Cass Kubela watched him go. “It’s him, all right,” Cass said. “The boss was right. It’s the kid!”

  “He knows us,” Haskell said.

  Kubela’s eyes were cold. He took the cigarette from his lips and dropped it into the dust. “Not for long!”

  CARSON STOOD BY, watching Deke bathe his face and hands, smoking quietly. When Deke had dried himself he looked at Carson.

  “Now you know, I was in prison.”

  “Knew it all the time. I even knew your stepfather.”

  “You what?”

  “Sure. Knew your ma, too. He wasn’t a bad man…just didn’t stop rustling when it went out of style.”

  Tim Carson smoked thoughtfully. “Son, at the trial you said you knew the men who robbed that train, but you wasn’t with them. You named Cass Kubela an’ Jerry Haskell.”

  “Right.” Deke waited, curiously.

  “Now I’ve never seen those hombres. Until that job they always worked east of the mountains. Would you know them again?”

  “I reckon I would.”

  “How about their boss? You said at the trial you didn’t know him but that he was Jud Kynell. Folks thought you were coverin’ up. Were you?”

  “No. Robber’s Roost covered miles, an’ outlaws used to work back an’ forth from the Hole in the Wall to the Roost an’ clean down over the old horsethief trail to the border. We heard about a lot of men we never saw. Jud Kynell was around when I was a kid. He’s some ten years older than me, as I figure it.”

  “Know anything about him?”

  “That’s about all, except that he did this; rodeoin’ I mean. That and he wears my brand.” Deke explained about what he had overheard, and his belief that the outlaw wore a deep scar on his chest. “There was an awful lot of blood for a scratch,” he finished. “I figure it ripped pretty deep.”

  “That’s an item.” Carson was thoughtful. “Son, I got a tip that Kubela was headed this way, ridin’ with another man.”

  “Haskell, most likely.” Deke looked at Carson. “You better watch it. Those two are killers.”

  “I know,” Carson replied. “Kid, can you sling that gun you’re wearin’?”

  Deke smiled. “Some…what have you got in mind?”

  “I’m goin’ to swear you in as a deputy. Everybody figures I’m no longer an officer…you see this?”

  The older man held forth a wallet containing a badge and some papers. “Deputy U.S. Marshal. It’s my theory those two were comin’ here, an’ comin’ to meet their boss, get that gold an’ hightail it out of the country. I trailed those boys to the vicinity of Forlorn Hope Spring in the foothills of the Opal Mountains, an’ I’d bet that gold ain’t cached more than a few miles from there.”

  BILL BLY’S RIDE on Highbinder was something to see, for the big red horse was a fighter, and Bly, say what one would of the man, was a rider. They went out of the chute like a miniature explosion and the red horse leaped for the sun. He landed and swapping ends he let go with both hind feet, almost standing on his head.

  Then he settled down to a wild, unrestrained and wholly murder-minded job of bucking. Eyes rolling, the beast went to work with a will, but when the whistle blew Bly was still on deck.

  Bly walked back to the chute with the crowd’s roaring cheers around him. It had been a great ride, a wicked ride. As he passed a small group of men not far from the chute, he saw Jerry Haskell. The lean-faced man nodded toward the opposite end of the arena, and tapped his pistol butt.

  Bly walked on to where Shadow, an evil-eyed grulla, was being saddled for Deke Murphy, who perched on the side of the chute. Deke dropped into the saddle as Bly glared up at him. “Nice ride!” Deke said. “Too bad Highbinder was feelin’ sort of poorly!”

  “Shut up, you fool!” Bly snapped.

  Deke’s head came up with a jerk and his mouth opened in astonishment. Those words!

  “You ready?” Red Roller glared at him. “Better get your mind on your business, boy! This one’s a fighter!”

  “I’m ready!” Murphy was suddenly grim and cold. “Give ’im air!”

  Shadow was a horse with a mission. He hated men, all men, but he reserved a special and bitterly vindictive brand of hate for those who tried to ride him. He came out of that chute like a rattlesnake with the DTs and went to sunfishing.

  He jumped straight up, all four legs hanging and his back bowed like an angry cat. Hitting the ground he went straight up again as if lifted by a charge of powder.

  Deke hung on as the horse twisted his whipcord body sharply to the left. Switching and humping, that bronc went to work to give the crowd a show and to beat his rider into submission. He bucked straightaway, see-sawing wickedly as he jumped, and contorted his back and writhed his spine.

  He headed north with a wicked forward jump, then sprang straight back and swapped ends three times. Deke felt air under him and for one frantic instant thought he was a goner, but then he slapped the saddle with the seat of his Levi’s and the world around him was a crazy quilt of tossing color and blurred shadows where nothing seemed to exist but that writhing, twisting, fighting explosion beneath him.

  Somewhere far off he heard a whistle blowing and suddenly the horsemen were tearing toward him.

  But Shadow was not through. Shadow had his own ideas about quitting and this was not the time or the place. He swapped ends and headed for the stands on a dead run, with the horsemen swinging to follow.

  At the wall of the stands, he swung broadside and hurled himself at the board. Deke, in a
long leap, grabbed at the front rail of the stands and left the saddle with a bound, leaving the frustrated, screaming horse behind him to be gathered up by the riders.

  Dazedly, he stared around at the cheering crowd, then he managed a grin. He pulled his hat from his head and lifted it, and then as his hand came down, his face went blank with astonishment. There was a bullet hole through the crown!

  Instantly, he remembered.

  Shut up, you fool!

  Wheeling, he vaulted over the rail and dropped to the ground. His hand felt for his gun, and it was still with him. He started across the arena, walking fast. Bill Bly stood alone, staring at him. Behind Bly, back by the barns, Carson held a pistol on Haskell. Haskell slowly lowered a rifle to the ground. Deke stood there looking at Bly.

  SUDDENLY, THE NOISE of the crowd seemed gone, and he stood alone in the sun-washed stillness, his legs spread, staring at the man who faced him. Out of the tail of his eye he saw a man step slightly away from the crowd, partly under cover of the stands. It was Cass Kubela.

  “I know you now,” Deke said.

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Open your shirt then, an’ if you’ve no scar on the left side of your chest, I’ll apologize.”

  “Go to the devil!” Bly said viciously.

  Between them a cigarette lay in the dust, lifting a thin column of hazy smoke upward. A horse stomped in a chute, and somewhere a child cried in petulant irritation. And then out of the corner of his eye, Deke saw Kubela’s gun coming up.

  Kubela’s gun came up, and Deke pivoted on the ball of his left foot and fired from hip level. He felt Kubela’s bullet hit him, and he fired again. The outlaw took a staggering step forward and fell headlong, the gun dribbling from his fingers.