The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 Read online

Chick was standing, his saddlebags in his left hand, his gun in his right. He was standing casually, eyes alert, staring at Rasch.

  The outlaw gulped, the sound loud in the room. The old clock ticked twice while horror mounted in Jake’s breast. He found himself in the last situation he wanted to be in, facing Chick Bowdrie with an even break.

  “Well”—Bowdrie was cool—“you came to kill me. Why don’t you shoot?”

  Transfixed with fear, Rasch forgot the girl in El Paso. He forgot about the important man he wanted to be. Suddenly the cost was enormously large. His mouth opened and closed. He tried to swallow. “You … you’d kill me! I wouldn’t have a chance!”

  “How much chance were you givin’ us?”

  Jake Rasch let his tongue touch his lips. Lust to kill was mounting past his fear. He took a step back toward the door, then another. Bowdrie’s eyes were on him.

  “No,” he whined. “I was a fool! I was—”

  He turned toward the door, then fired suddenly across his chest.

  Bowdrie had been watching with the eyes of experience. The treachery in the man was obvious. He could see the fever to kill in the man’s eyes. His gun was ready, and when he saw the man’s knuckle move, his thumb on the hammer, Bowdrie killed him.

  Jake’s gun blasted, and there was a thud in the wall behind him. The gun slipped from Rasch’s fingers and his legs seemed to melt under him. He sank to the floor, half in, half out of the door.

  Moby Fosdick stared at the fallen man, then at the groove cut by Rasch’s bullet in the surface of the table. Had he not leaned to pick that twig from the fire, he would be dead.

  He realized what a fool he had been. There could be no tolerating of evil. One stamped it out or the evil grew worse. He had held on, hoping the Tuckers would leave the area or be killed. Now he knew that not only himself but his son and daughter were in danger.

  “Lily, pack your things. Come daybreak we’re gettin’ out of here.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Jake Rasch. He rides with Tucker.”

  Bowdrie knew the name. He was on the list of wanted men. “Who did he want? You or me?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at the groove again. “Looks like he wanted me, probably both of us.”

  Daylight was filtering into the hollow when Bowdrie rolled out of the hay, left the stable, and walked toward the house. A paint horse stood head down at the hitching post. Bowdrie considered it, reaching some agreement with himself. He was turning toward the door when it opened softly. Quickly he flattened himself against the wall and in the shadows of a tree.

  Lily Fosdick slipped from the door, glanced fearfully toward the stable where she thought him to be, then hurried away across the clearing. Without stirring, he watched her enter the cedars near the cliff.

  Moby was stirring around inside when Bowdrie entered. “Got some coffee on,” he suggested. “Better have some.”

  “I’m going after the Tuckers this morning. Got anything you want to tell me?”

  Moby straightened up from the fire. “I guess … not. They’ve got them a hideout, can’t be more’n five or six miles off, the way they come an’ go.”

  Bowdrie gulped hot black coffee and waited. Something was worrying Fosdick.

  “Bowdrie, you’ve got a name for killin’ men, but they say you’re square. My boy’s out there, Bowdrie. He ain’t a bad boy, but it got kind of lonesome here and those fellers talked big about all they done. He sort of took up with Tucker. I don’t reckon he’s done anything wrong yet, ain’t been time, and they ain’t been away, so—”

  “Any boy can get into trouble. No reason he has to keep on that road. I had a start that way myself but turned off before it was too late. As for killin’, I don’t do any more than I have to. Rasch there, he gave me no choice.”

  When Bowdrie had the saddle on the roan, he tied the reins of the paint horse to the saddle horn and said, “Go home, boy. You go home now.”

  The paint hesitated, trotted off a few steps, then headed down the trail. Whether the gelding understood or not, he remembered where the other horses were and where he’d been fed and watered.

  There was no sign of Lily. He saw her tracks, then lost them as he followed the paint.

  Almost an hour later Shad Tucker got up from the fire and saw the paint come trotting into the clearing. He stiffened, eyes narrow. “Frank? Look there!”

  Crowley stood up. “Looks like Jake made a bad mistake,” he commented dryly.

  “Hey?” He dove into the brush, reaching for his rifle as he passed the rock where he had been sitting. “See those reins? Tied to the horn. I betcha that Ranger’s followin’.”

  A short distance back along the trail, Bowdrie was puzzled. There should be some smoke. At this time of the morning somebody would be making coffee. He saw the paint had pulled up near a corral where there were other horses. He turned to look toward the left and saw the fire. He also saw two rifle barrels, and they were pointed at him.

  “Jest set right still, Ranger. An’ keep both hands on the pommel.”

  Chick Bowdrie swore softly. It would be madness to move now. At that distance they could not miss.

  Shad Tucker came out of the brush. Behind him was Buckeye Thomas. “Good man, Frank!” Tucker said. “We got him dead to rights!”

  Thomas bared his yellow teeth. “The great Chick Bowdrie! Wal, Mr. Ranger, I reckon you got to be taught. I reckon so.”

  Tucker gestured at the maze of canyons and rough country. “This here’s mine! You Rangers ain’t needed. We’ll just sort of make an example of you an’ leave what’s left for Rangers to find so they’ll know what’s comin’ to ’em if they come into my country.”

  “There will be others,” Bowdrie said calmly. “Others who are tougher and smarter than me.”

  “When they find you,” Tucker replied, “they’ll find you with no hands, nor will you have any eyes or skin on your chest. I’ll keep you alive for all o’ that, then leave what’s left to the ants and the buzzards.”

  Crowley glanced from one to the other, worry in his eyes. Bowdrie could see that Crowley didn’t like it. Robbery and killing was one thing, torture something else. “Shad, Lily will be down to the cave about now, won’t she?”

  Tucker slapped his thigh. “Damned if she won’t! I almost forgot. I figured to keep that appointment she made with Jerry, so I better get down there.”

  Tucker reached up and flipped Bowdrie’s guns from their holsters; then, grabbing him by the shirtfront, he jerked him from the saddle and threw a wicked punch to his belly. “How d’you like it, Ranger? You think you’re tough, huh? Well, we’ll see.”

  When Bowdrie was bound hand and foot, Shad Tucker swung to the saddle of his own horse and started down the trail. “Hold him for me. Don’t do nothin’ until I git back. This one’s my meat.”

  “What about Jerry?”

  “If he shows up, keep him here. Lily”—he grinned—“will be surprised to see me, but she’ll get used to it.”

  Crowley looked down at Bowdrie. “You’d be dead if I had my way. This other idea is Shad’s.”

  He walked to the fire and leaned his rifle against a log while he poured a cup of coffee.

  Bowdrie, left alone for a moment, studied his situation with no pleasure. He was propped in a sitting position against a log, hands tied behind him, ankles bound together. Thomas was sprawled on a blanket across the fire, Crowley sipping coffee. The stump of a huge tree stood near Chick. In its edge were numerous gashes where an ax had been struck.

  He heard the approaching horse several minutes before either of the others. The rider rode into the clearing, a clean-cut young man of nineteen with quick, nervous movements but a steady gray eye that Bowdrie instinctively liked.

  “Snoopin’ Ranger. Ketched him easy. Name of Bowdrie.”

  “Bowdrie?” Jerry Fosdick turned to look. “I’ve heard of him.” He paused. “If you see Shad tell him I’m goin’ down to the post to see Pa.”

  “You�
��re to stay here,” Thomas said. “Shad wants you here until he gits back.”

  Bowdrie had done what he wanted with his feet. He looked over at Jerry. “Tucker’s gone to the cave to be alone with your sister. She thinks she’s meeting you there. And Jake Rasch tried to kill your pa last night. Now Jake’s dead. I killed him.”

  Buckeye jumped to his feet. “That’s a damn lie!”

  “Hold it!” Jerry’s face was pale. “You said Lily thinks she’s meetin’ me? That Shad’s gone down there?”

  “Set down, kid.” Thomas tried to be casual. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

  “Then why are you tryin’ to stop me from goin’ down there?” He swung his horse and Thomas dropped a hand to a gun. “You stay here, kid. When Shad wants him a woman, nobody butts in!”

  Bowdrie had wedged a spur into a crack in the stump; he gave a quick jerk on the foot and it slipped from the boot. He lunged to his feet and threw himself at Crowley’s back. The lunge sent Crowley sprawling against Thomas, and they both fell.

  “Cover them, kid! Then cut my hands loose!”

  Crowley, who had gotten up, dove into the brush. Jerry followed him with a quick shot; then, catching up a knife lying near the fire, he cut Bowdrie’s hands loose. Chick grabbed up his guns, pulled on his boot, and ran for the roan.

  “You watch him, kid! If he makes a wrong move, kill him! I’m goin’ after your sister.”

  “I’m goin’ too!”

  “You stay here!”

  Lily had waited anxiously, and when she heard the approaching horse, she stepped out of the cave. When she saw who it was, she drew back quickly, but not quickly enough. It was the first time she had seen Tucker when her father was not present. “Oh, I thought it was Jerry.”

  Shad hung a leg around the saddle horn and began building himself a smoke. He could see the mounting fear in her eyes and it was like wine in his blood. “You can quit expectin’ him. I come instead.”

  “You mean … he’s been hurt?”

  “He don’t even know you’re here. I figured it would be more fun if I came alone. Anyway, I’m takin’ you with us. Gits lonesome over in the badlands with no woman around.”

  “I’m going back to the post!” Lily said. “I’ll see my father about this!”

  Tucker dropped his foot back in the stirrup and brought his horse in front of her. “Jest sit tight, filly! We got business to do after I finish my smoke. You don’t want your pa killed, do you?”

  “Killed? Oh, you wouldn’t dare!”

  “Kill him? I aim to. He figures hisself too high an’ mighty to suit me. As for that Ranger, don’t you go to thinkin’ he’ll help. We got him back to camp, all tied up for skinnin’.”

  He swung down from his horse and tied it to a bush with a slip knot. Cut off from the trail, there was only one way for her to move. She darted into the cave.

  She heard Shad’s brutal laughter. “Like the dark, do you? I’ll be right in!”

  She stopped, looking around. It was even worse in the cave. Yet suddenly she remembered the opening she and Jerry had found. She ran on, stumbling in the dark. Behind her Shad Tucker’s boots grated on rock.

  Horror choked her. Behind her was Shad, his leering unshaved face, his broken-nailed hands. She ran into the dark. Then she could no longer run, for the floor was covered with fallen rock. She felt her way to the wall, waiting, thinking.

  This cave had never been fully explored. She and Jerry had planned it, and had prepared torches for the purpose. Behind her, Tucker was fumbling about, growing more and more angry because of the trouble she was causing. He found a pile of the torches and lit one. The reflected light helped her.

  She went on into an almost square room. The only escape was a dark opening, scarcely more than a crack, in the wall opposite. She paused, panting from her running and the close air. She went through the crack, and paused in amazement; the faint reflection from behind her seemed to touch upon a forest of stalagmites and stalactites. Or was it merely the dancing shadows on the wall?

  Frightened, she tried to fight back the terror. She must think, think! He was coming. She could hear his footsteps; then they faded. Had he turned another way? If she could only get back through the crack and outside! If she could—

  He was there, before her, holding the torch. “Y’ better git back the way you come,” he said. “If this here torch goes out, we’re both in trouble.”

  She felt around for some kind of weapon, a piece of stone, a broken stalactite … anything!

  Coolly he wedged the pitch-pine torch into a crack in the wall, then turned toward her. “All right now, filly. The runnin’s over. Come here!”

  “Tucker?” Bowdrie’s voice boomed in the cave. “You wanted me, now I’m here. Drop your gunbelts or start shootin’!”

  Bowdrie took a quick step to the left to draw fire away from Lily, and his boot caught on a projecting rock. He tripped and fell, crashing to the rock floor. He heard the girl’s quick scream of terror as he thumbed the hammer on the six-gun in his hand.

  A lance of fire darted at him. His own crossed it. He heard a gasp and he scrambled to his feet. Across forty feet of torchlit cave the men faced each other.

  Was Shad Tucker really hit? Or had his bullet only brought a startled gasp from the outlaw?

  Lily shrank against the wall, and Tucker was bringing his gun up. Bowdrie shot from down low and the bullet ripped the gun from Tucker’s hand. It fell, rattling among the rocks.

  Turning swiftly, Tucker darted into the depths of the cave, running hard. Bowdrie sent a bullet after him, then, as the outlaw was no longer visible, he held his fire, moving deeper into the shadows.

  They heard the running feet, then suddenly a wild, terror-riven scream. A scream that echoed again and then again in the vaulted room.

  Lily Fosdick stared at Bowdrie. “What—?”

  “Something happened,” he said. He took the torch from the wall and they started through the pillars of stone. Somewhere they heard water falling. Bowdrie stopped abruptly.

  The cave floor ended suddenly, and before them gaped a great hole, a huge cistern within the cave. A mouth of blackness that gulped at their feeble light. Picking up a loose stone, he dropped it into the hole. Their eyes stared, listening, waiting.…

  Then somewhere far, far below there was a splash.

  Without a word they walked back to the cave entrance.

  Jerry was waiting, gun in hand. He holstered the pistol when he saw them. Briefly Bowdrie explained.

  “Got Thomas tied up,” Jerry said. “Pa come along an’ helped me. Crowley got away. Lit out.”

  Jerry cleared his throat. “I was goin’ to ride with them, Mr. Bowdrie. I really was. Thought I was.”

  “Point is, you didn’t. If you’re restless here, ride up north to the XIT. Friends of mine up there, an’ they’re hirin’ for the roundup an’ trail drive. That’ll be work enough to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Last night,” Lily said, “after you went to the barn to sleep, I made a cake. Icing and all. I haven’t even cut into it yet.”

  Bowdrie’s head came up like a hound dog scenting a coon. “Now, that’s something I haven’t had in more than a year. Shall we ride a little faster?”

  Bowdrie Follows a Cold Trail

  Puffs of dust rose from the roan’s shambling trot, and Chick Bowdrie shifted his position in the saddle. It had been a long ride and he was tired. From a distance he had glimpsed a spot of green and the vague shape of buildings among the trees. Where there was green of that shade there was usually water, and where there were water and buildings there would be people, warm food, and some conversation.

  No cattle dotted the grassland, no horses looked over the corral bars. There was no movement in the sun-baked area around the barn.

  He walked the roan into the yard and called out, “Anybody t’ home?”

  Only silence answered his hail, the utter silence of a place long abandoned. The neat, carefully situated and constructed buildings
were gray and weather-worn, and the gaping door of the barn showed a blank emptiness behind it.

  It was strange to find no people in a place of such beauty. Trees shaded the dooryard and a rosebush bloomed beside the door, a rosebush bedraggled and game, fighting a losing battle against the wind, the dust, and the parched earth.

  “Nevertheless,” he said aloud, “this is as far as I go tonight.”

  He stepped down from the saddle, beating the dust from chaps and shirt, his black eyes sweeping the house and barn again. He had the uneasy sense of a manhunter who knows something is wrong, something is out of place.

  The hammerheaded roan ambled over to the water hole and dipped his muzzle into its limpid clearness.

  “Somebody,” Chick muttered, “spent a lot of time to make this place into a home. Some of the trees were planted, and that rosebush, too.”

  The little ranch lay in the upper end of a long valley that widened out into a seemingly endless range that lost itself against the purple of far-off hills.

  The position of the house, barn, and corrals indicated a mind that knew what it wanted. Whoever had built this place had probably spent a lot of days in the saddle or up on a wagon seat planning just how he wanted it. This was not just a ranch for the raising of cattle; this was a home.

  “Five will get you ten he had him a woman,” Bowdrie said.

  Yet why, when so much work had been done, had the place been abandoned? “And for a long time, too,” Bowdrie told himself.

  There were tumbleweeds banked against the side of the barn and caught under the water trough in the corral. This place had been a long time alone.

  The dry steps of the house creaked under his weight. The closed door sagged on its hinges, and when he tugged on it they creaked protestingly, almost rusted into immobility. Yet when the door opened, his boot rested on the step and stayed there.

  A man’s skeleton lay on the floor; his leather gunbelt, cracked and dried to a stiff, dead thing, still clung to his waist.

  “So that was it. You built it but never got a chance to enjoy it.”

  Bowdrie stepped into the room, glancing around with thoughtful attention. Here, too, was evidence of careful planning, the keen mind of a practical man who wanted to make life easier both for himself and for his woman.