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

  Hitson’s gun was already flaming, and even as Steve pulled the trigger on his own gun, a bullet from Hitson’s pistol knocked the Smith & Wesson spinning into the dust! Steve sprang back and heard the hard, dry laugh of triumph from Jake Hitson’s throat.

  “Now I’ll kill yuh!” Hitson yelled.

  The killer’s eyes were cold as he lifted the pistol, but even as it came level, Steve hurled himself to his knees and jerked out the four-barreled Braendlin.

  Hitson swung the gun down on him, but startled by Steve’s movement, he swung too fast and shot too fast. The bullet ripped through the top of Mehan’s shoulder, tugging hard at the heavy coat. Then Steve fired. He fired once, twice, three times, and then heaved himself erect and stepped to one side, holding his last shot ready, his eyes careful.

  Hitson stood stock-still, his eyes puzzled. Blood was trickling from his throat, and there was a slowly spreading blot of blood on his white shirt. He tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth, blood frothed there and he started to back up, frowning.

  He stumbled and fell. Slowly he rolled over on his face in the street. Blood turned the gravel crimson, and rain darkened the coat on his back.

  Only then did Steve Mehan look up. Pink Egan, his face cold, had a gun leveled at Hitson’s companion. “You beat it,” Pink said. “You get goin’!”

  “Shore!” The man backed away, staring at Hitson’s body. “Shore, I’m gone! I don’t want no trouble! I just come along, I—”

  The small man in black came out of the express office.

  “Got here just in time,” he said. “I’m the purser from the steamer. Got nearly a thousand out of that bank, the last anybody will get.” He smiled at Mehan. “Won another thousand on your ride. I bet on you and got two to one.” He chuckled. “Of course, I knew we had soldiers to put ashore at two places coming north, and that helped. I’m a sporting man, myself.”

  He clinked the gold in his sack and smiled, twitching his mustache with a white finger.

  “Up to a point,” he added, smiling again. “Only up to a point!”

  Red Butte Showdown

  Gunthorp was walking up from the spring with two wooden buckets filled with water when he saw the boy. He was no more than thirteen, and he was running as fast as he could, his breath coming in gasps. “Hold it, son,” Gunthorp called out. “What’s wrong?”

  The boy skidded to a halt, his eyes wide and staring, shrinking back in such fear that it chilled Gunthorp.

  “They’re after me!” he panted. “Kelman’s men.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They caught me and beat me—” He twisted his arm to show Gunthorp an ugly black bruise. The boy’s shirt was torn and his back lacerated. Gunthorp’s eyes narrowed and he felt his scalp tighten.

  “Come on up to the house,” he said. “We’ll fix that back.”

  “I can’t.” The boy was almost beside himself with terror. “They’ll catch me! Kelman’s with them.”

  “Forget them. You come with me. No use you running off. Where would you go?” Gunthorp waved a hand at the burnt red ridges. “Nothing out there but desert. No water, nothing. You stay with me, let me handle Kelman.”

  He led the way to the log house and pushed open the door. A fire was burning brightly on the hearth, and the smell of coffee was in the air. “Basin’s over there, son. You better get that shirt off and wash a little. I’ll wash that back of yours myself, then I’ll fix it up.”

  There was the hard pound of hoofs and the boy started as if stung. Tears of sheer terror started to his eyes, and Gunthorp looked at him with a sort of horror. He had never seen anything human so frightened.

  He picked up a double-barreled shotgun and placed it beside the door. Then he opened the door and stood there, his hand on the shotgun.

  The riders reined in abruptly when they saw him. The nearest was a big, powerfully built man with a clean-shaven face, and as he spoke he swung his horse broadside to the house.

  “Did you see a boy running by? Just a kid?”

  “He didn’t run by. He’s here.”

  “Good! You’ve saved us some trouble, man. We’ve had a time running down the little thief. Joe, you go in and bring him out.”

  “Joe can stay right where he is,” Gunthorp said. “The kid came here, and here he stays.”

  Kelman’s eyes were level and cold. It was not yet too dark for Gunthorp to see that expression and read it. This man was cruel. He was also a killer, and he was not used to being stopped in anything he did.

  “You’d better give me that boy without trouble, my man. You’re new here. When you’ve been around longer, you’ll understand better.”

  “I’ve been around long enough. You swing your horses around and get out of here.”

  Kelman’s temper flared. “Joe! Get that kid!”

  “Joe stays where he is unless he wants a skinful of buckshot.” Gunthorp lifted the shotgun with a smooth, flowing movement. “If he moves, I’ll kill him with the first shot and you with the second.”

  Kelman’s face was like a fiend’s. His nostrils flared, his jaw jutted, and the anger that danced in his eyes was wicked. “You—you—fool! I’ll kill you for this! I’ll burn this shack over your head! I’ll—”

  “Get out.”

  Gunthorp did not raise his voice. His bleak eyes shifted from face to face. “Get out! You come around here again and I’ll do my own killing. Your blood runs as free as this boy’s. Maybe a good whipping is what you need.”

  Joe’s face was white. “He means it, boss. We’d better haul our freight.”

  “That’s good advice. You ride out, Kelman, or those men of yours can take you back lashed over a saddle. I’m not particular which. Any man who’ll beat a kid like that doesn’t deserve to live!”

  Joe was stirred by none of Kelman’s rage, and he was sure that Gunthorp would shoot. He turned his horse toward the gate, and the others moved after him. For an instant longer, Kelman stared at Gunthorp. Then, suddenly, the fury seemed to leave him.

  “For you, my friend, I’ll make some special plans!” he promised.

  With a wicked jerk, he whipped his horse’s head around and drove in the spurs. The horse literally sprang from a standing start into a dead run and charged by the other three riders at breakneck speed.

  Gunthorp watched for a moment longer, then spat. Calmly, he put the gun down and closed the door. Then he looked over at the boy. “You’d better take your shirt off, son. We’ll see if we can’t fix that back up.”

  He was not a tall man, reaching just a hair over five feet nine inches, but Gunthorp was massively muscled and heavy. He walked with a rolling gait that oddly suited his build. His face was a square-jawed, mahogany-tinted combination of strength and humor atop a thick neck that descended into his powerful shoulders. As he bathed the boy’s back he said, “He called you a thief. Did you steal anything, boy?”

  “No, sir. Not anything of his. It was somethin’ that belonged to Pop. A pocketbook.”

  “Money in it?”

  “Only a little. I wanted some papers.”

  “Your father’s wallet, eh?” Gunthorp dipped the cloth in the warm water again, squeezed part of the water out, and started on another cut. “Where’s your father, boy?”

  “He’s dead—killed in a mine.”

  “Sorry. Was it a cave-in?”

  “Yes, sir. Kelman came and said he was my guardian, and that I must do as he said. He had Pop’s wallet, which he got from the drawer where Pop always left it when he went to work in the tunnel.”

  “Why’d he beat you?” Gunthorp looked searchingly at the boy, who was slipping into a clean shirt that belonged to Gunthorp and looked about a dozen sizes too big.

  “He wanted me to tell him where Pop hid some papers he couldn’t find, and he wanted me to ask the judge to have him left in charge of my father’s place.”

  “And you wouldn’t tell?”

  “No, sir.”

  Gunthorp nodded, admiration in
his eyes. “You’ve got grit, boy. You’ve a lot of grit. Don’t tell anybody else about those papers for now. Do you know what’s in them? What’s the value?”

  “I—I don’t know. Only, Pop told me they were very important and I must keep them. He said that somebody might try to get them from me, but they were all he could leave to my sister and me if anything happened.”

  “So you have a sister? Where is she?”

  “Out in California. She’s going to school but I think she’s coming back soon. I wrote her when Father was killed, and she said she was coming home.”

  “That’s good.” Gunthorp started putting dishes and food on the table.

  While they were eating, he looked across the table at the boy. His nose was flat, and there was a scar on his upper lip. “Kelman’s after something your father owned? You don’t know what it could be?”

  “No, sir. Unless it’s the mine. It was a good mine, I think, but Pop never got much out of it. He owned a lot of land in the valley.”

  “That desert land? What did he want with that?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I think Kelman knows, though.”

  Gunthorp nodded. “What makes you believe so?”

  “He told Pop once that he knew. I heard him say something like ‘Pretty smart, aren’t you, Stevens? But I’ve got it figured out. Are you taking me in?’ It was something like that … pretty close, anyway.”

  “Hm. Interesting. It gives me a clue, boy. Stevens your name then? And the first one?”

  “Lane, sir. My name is Lane Stevens.”

  “It’s a good name. You’ve been well brought up, too, I can see that.” Gunthorp looked up over his coffee cup. “Where’s your mother, son?”

  “She’s dead, sir. A long time ago. I don’t remember her very well.”

  “More credit to your father, then. Have you been to school?”

  “A little, and my father taught me some, too. He taught me to read, sign, and to know the different minerals, and how to shoot a rifle and use a single jack.”

  “A wise man, your father.” Gunthorp was listening as he spoke. “A man who knows how to teach a boy practical things. Still, they are of little account unless one knows what lies behind them. The thoughts behind things, and the reasons for them … that’s important, too.”

  He got up. “Finish your supper, boy. The sheriff will be here in a few minutes for you.”

  Lane started up. “The sheriff?”

  “Sit still. There’s no reason for excitement. Let the man come. He’s an unlikely man, not sure of himself, and he will come because Kelman will urge him. Tonight we can, I hope, talk him out of it. Tomorrow may be another thing.”

  The sound of horses on the hard-packed earth of the yard made him nod. “Of course. Now put the light out, boy, and stand away from the door. I’ve no trust for the look in that Kelman’s eye.”

  “Hallo, the house!”

  Gunthorp opened the door. “How are you, Sheriff Eagan. Ah, I see you’ve brought Kelman with you. Are you taking him under arrest then? Do you want me for a witness?”

  “Arrest?” Eagan was confused. “Why should I arrest him?”

  “For beating the lad, for beating him until there’s cuts a finger deep on his back. If you want, I’ll come to town and swear out a warrant for him myself.”

  “Forget that and get on with it, Eagan!” Kelman snapped roughly.

  Gunthorp stood in the door, his big hands on his hips, his enormous shoulders and chest seeming to fill the door. He smiled.

  “Now, now, Kelman,” he said mildly. “Let’s not be ordering the sheriff around. Mr. Eagan knows his duties, and it isn’t any citizen’s place to order him about. You don’t take orders from Kelman, do you, Sheriff?”

  “Certainly not!” Eagan blustered. “Now, enough of that. I’ve come for the boy. He’s a thief, and I’m arresting him.”

  “A thief? What did he steal? A wallet, wasn’t it? And the wallet belonged to his father. He is his father’s heir, or one of them. You can’t arrest this boy for stealing. I’m sure it wouldn’t hold up.”

  Eagan turned toward Kelman, uneasily. “You didn’t tell me the wallet belonged to Stevens,” he protested.

  “That’s neither here nor there!” Kelman’s rage was mastering him again. “Take the boy and let’s go. If that blundering fool wants to try to stop us, I’ll handle him!”

  “Stop you?” Gunthorp smiled. “I’d never think of it, Sheriff. I’ve a great respect for the law and officers of the law. The boy was taken to Kelman’s ranch, where he was beaten to make him tell where some papers were. The boy escaped, and in escaping took his father’s wallet, to which he certainly had more right than Kelman. No, Sheriff, the boy is better off here.” He smiled again. “When he is needed for any court appearance, I shall gladly answer for him.”

  “We want him, and we want him now,” Kelman flared.

  Gunthorp nodded. “I’m afraid you are mistaking yourself for some sort of official, Kelman. Mr. Eagan is his own man and he can do his own thinking. If he can’t … well, we’ll see who gets the votes in the next election.”

  Eagan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Secretly, he was afraid of Kelman, but he resented the man’s arrogant manner and the ordering about he constantly took from him. The way Gunthorp was putting it, Eagan would practically prove he was crawling to Kelman’s orders if he took the boy.

  Gunthorp comprehended something of what was in the sheriff’s mind, so he offered him an easy way out. “Anyway,” he added, “Sheriff Eagan is a man who knows the law. I’m not saying the boy is here, but he can’t search my house without a warrant.”

  Eagan clutched at the opportunity. “That’s right, Kelman,” he said, “I’d have to have a warrant for the boy to go into that house and search for him.”

  “Warrant, blazes!” Kelman exploded with rage.

  He flung himself toward the house. “Get away from the door!” he roared at Gunthorp.

  Gunthorp did not move, but with his eyes on Kelman, he said to the sheriff, “Eagan, if he comes at me, I’ll defend myself.”

  Before Eagan could speak, Kelman’s hand swept back for a gun, and at the same instant, Gunthorp moved. His left hand shot out and gripped Kelman’s wrist. His right hand dropped to Kelman’s left bicep.

  Kelman was a big man, and a skillful boxer, but here he had no chance. Gunthorp’s big brown hands shut down hard, the right fingers digging into the muscles of Kelman’s arm, the fingers of the left hand shutting down like a powerful vise on the wrist of the gun hand.

  Kelman might have been stricken with paralysis. Gunthorp’s hands gripped with crushing power, and Kelman’s face went white. The gun had come clear of the holster, but Kelman cried out with pain, and the gun dropped from his hand. Then, still gripping him by the wrist and upper arm, Gunthorp lifted the man clear off his feet and hurled him bodily into the yard.

  His face had not changed. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but he attacked me. You saw it. I refuse to allow any search without a warrant. Go to Judge McClees and get one, if you wish.”

  Eagan knew just as well as Gunthorp did that Judge Jim McClees was not going to grant any warrant without making a thorough study of the case; and that would be the last thing Kelman would want.

  Kelman, his right hand almost useless from the crushing grip, caught the pommel of the saddle with his left and hauled himself up. Gunthorp retrieved the gun and handed it to Eagan.

  “Return this to him when you think it’s appropriate,” he said, smiling.

  When daylight began lifting the shadows from the sun-blasted ridges, Gunthorp ate a hurried breakfast, and then he took the boy to the door.

  “You see that cottonwood with the dead limb? Right opposite the end of that limb, in the wall of the cliff, is a cave. You go up there with this grub I packed and this canteen, and don’t you stir out of there until I come for you … or ’til three days have gone by. If you don’t hear from me in three days, somebody got me.

  “In tha
t cave there’s more water. You can also see this place, but you keep still up there or somebody might see you moving.”

  With that, Gunthorp swung into the saddle and started for the hills. He knew where the Stevens mine was and he was taking a chance that no one would be around. He rode swiftly, and when he found himself among the piñons on the slope above the canyon where the mine lay, he ground-hitched the gelding and slid farther down the hill to where he looked over the mine and a shack nearby. A half hour’s careful watch showed no movement.

  He went down the hill with long strides, sliding gravel around him, his weight carrying him almost at a run. When he reached the bottom of the steep slope, he surveyed the buildings once more. No movement. Swiftly, he crossed to the mine, took one quick, last look around, then disappeared into the tunnel.

  As he walked along the drift, he remembered what he had seen in that quick glance. The mine was in the face of the rock at the end of a deep notch in the mountain, a notch that widened out until it opened upon the desert valley below. Stevens had purchased this canyon and considerable land in the valley, although the extent of his buying was unknown. He had told those who were curious that he did not wish to be crowded, but they had laughed and said there was no chance of anyone ever moving near him, for the land he bought was the driest and worst around.

  This much Gunthorp knew, for he was a man who listened well, and there were men enough who talked freely. He carried a candle with him, and after a while he stopped to study the wall of the tunnel. There was very little mineral here, but the big vein might be farther inside.

  He walked swiftly, counting his paces as he went. Suddenly, he rounded a turn in the drift and was brought up short, finding himself staring at the end where the drift had collapsed. He had walked almost a quarter of a mile from the entrance.

  Thoughtfully, he studied the rock around him, and particularly that in the face. Then he turned and with the same swift strides hurried back. A quick look around showed no one in sight, so he stepped out and started for the wash.

  “Hey!” The shout stopped him in his tracks, and he turned to see a man rushing toward him. “Who are you? What do you mean by going into that mine without permission?”