The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7 Read online

  Bush Leason was sitting on a cot in his shack when they brought him the news that Moran was in town. Leason was a huge man, thick through the waist and with a wide, flat, cruel face. When they told him, he said nothing at all, just continued to clean his double-barreled shotgun. It was the gun that had killed Shorty Grimes.

  Shorty Grimes had ridden for Tim Ryerson, and between them Ryerson and Chet Lee had sewed up all the range on Battle Flat. Neither of them drifted cattle on Squaw Creek, but for four years they had been cutting hay from its grass-rich meadows, until the nesters had moved in.

  Ryerson and Lee ordered them to leave. They replied the land was government land open to filing. Hedrow talked for the nesters, but it was Bush Leason who wanted to talk, and Bush was a troublemaker. Ryerson gave them a week and, when they didn’t move, tore down fences and burned a barn or two.

  In all of this Shorty Grimes and Krag Moran had no part. They had been repping on Carol Duchin’s place at the time. Grimes had ridden into town alone and stopped at the Palace for a drink. Leason started trouble, but the other nesters stopped him. Then Leason turned at the door. “Ryerson gave us a week to leave the country. I’m giving you just thirty minutes to get out of town! Then I come a-shooting!”

  Shorty Grimes had been ready to leave, but after that he had decided to stay. A half hour later there was a challenging yell from the dark street out front. Grimes put down his glass and started for the door, gun in hand. He had just reached the street door when Bush Leason stepped through the back door and ran forward, three light, quick steps.

  Bush Leason stopped there, still unseen. “Shorty!” he called softly.

  Pistol lowered, unsuspecting, Shorty Grimes had turned, and Bush Leason had emptied both barrels of the shotgun into his chest.

  One of the first men into the saloon after the shooting was Dan Riggs, editor of The Bradshaw Journal. He knew what this meant, knew it and did not like it, for he was a man who hated violence and felt that no good could come of it. Nor had he any liking for Bush Leason. He had warned the nester leader, Hedrow, about him only a few days before.

  Nobody liked the killing but everybody was afraid of Bush. They had all heard Bush make his brags and the way to win was to stay alive….

  Now Dan Riggs heard that Krag Moran was in town, and he got up from his desk and took off his eye-shade. It was no more than ninety feet from the front of the print shop to the Palace and Dan walked over. He stopped there in front of Krag. Dan was a slender, middle-aged man with thin hands and a quiet face. He said:

  “Don’t do it, son. You mount up and ride home. If you kill Leason that will just be the beginning.”

  “There’s been a beginning. Leason started it.”

  “Now, look here—” Riggs protested, but Krag interrupted him.

  “You better move,” he said, in that slow Texas drawl of his. “Leason might show up any time.”

  “We’ve got a town here,” Riggs replied determinedly. “We’ve got women and homes and decent folks. We don’t want the town shot up and we don’t want a lot of drunken killings. If you riders can’t behave yourselves, stay away from town! Those farmers have a right to live, and they are good, God-fearing people!”

  Krag Moran just sat there. “I haven’t killed anybody,” he said reasonably, his face a little solemn. “I’m just a-sittin’ here.”

  Riggs started to speak, then with a wave of exasperated hands he turned and hurried off. And then he saw Carol Duchin.

  Carol Duchin was several things. By inheritance, from her father, she owned a ranch that would make two of Ryerson’s. She was twenty-two years old, single, and she knew cattle as well as any man. Chet Lee had proposed to her three times and had been flatly refused three times. She both knew and liked Dan Riggs and his wife, and she often stopped overnight at the Riggs home when in town. Despite that, she was cattle, all the way.

  Dan Riggs went at once to Carol Duchin and spoke his piece. Right away she shook her head. “I won’t interfere,” she replied. “I knew Shorty Grimes and he was a good man.”

  “That he was,” Riggs agreed sincerely, “I only wish they were all as good. That was a dastardly murder and I mean to say so in the next issue of my paper. But another killing won’t help things any, no matter who gets killed.”

  Carol asked him: “Have you talked to Bush Leason?” Riggs nodded. “He won’t listen either. I tried to get him to ride over to Flagg until things cooled off a little. He laughed at me.”

  She eyed him curiously.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to Krag. For you, he’ll leave.”

  “I scarcely know him.” Carol Duchin was not planning to tell anyone how much she did know about Krag Moran, nor how interested in the tall rider she had become. During his period of repping with her roundup he had not spoken three words to her, but she had noticed him, watched him, and listened to her riders talk about him among themselves.

  “Talk to him. He respects you. All of them do.”

  Yes, Carol reflected bitterly, he probably does. And he probably never thinks of me as a woman.

  She should have known better. She was the sort of girl no man could ever think of in any other way. Her figure was superb, and she very narrowly escaped genuine beauty. Only her very coolness and her position as owner had kept more than one cowhand from speaking to her. So far only Chet Lee had found the courage. But Chet never lacked for that.

  She walked across the street toward the Palace, her heart pounding, her mouth suddenly dry. Now that she was going to speak to Krag, face to face, she was suddenly frightened as a child. He got to his feet as she came up to him. She was tall for a girl, but he was still taller. His mouth was firm, his jaw strong and clean boned. She met his eyes and found them smoky green and her heart fluttered.

  “Krag,” her voice was natural, at least, “don’t stay here. You’ll either be killed or you’ll kill Bush. In either case it will be just one more step and will just lead to more killing.”

  His voice sounded amused, yet respectful, too. “You’ve been talking to Dan Riggs. He’s an old woman.”

  “No,” suddenly she was sure of herself, “no, he’s telling the truth, Krag. Those people have a right to that grass, and this isn’t just a feud between you and Leason. It means good men are going to be killed, homes destroyed, crops ruined, and the work of months wiped out. You can’t do this thing.”

  “You want me to quit?” He was incredulous. “You know this country. I couldn’t live in it, nor anywhere the story traveled.”

  She looked straight into his eyes. “It often takes a braver man not to fight.”

  He thought about that, his smoky eyes growing somber. Then he nodded. “I never gave it any thought,” he said seriously, “but I reckon you’re right. Only I’m not that brave.”

  “Listen to Dan!” she pleaded. “He’s an intelligent man! He’s an editor! His newspaper means something in this country and will mean more. What he says is important.”

  “Him?” Krag chuckled. “Why, ma’am, that little varmint’s just a-fussin’. He don’t mean nothing, and nobody pays much attention to him. He’s just a little man with ink on his fingers!”

  “You don’t understand!” Carol protested.

  BUSH LEASON WAS across the street. During the time Krag Moran had been seated in front of the Palace, Bush had been doing considerable serious thinking. How good Krag was, Bush had no idea, nor did he intend to find out, yet a showdown was coming and from Krag’s lack of action he evidently intended for Bush to force the issue.

  Bush was not hesitant to begin it, but the more he considered the situation the less he liked it. The wall of the Palace was stone, so he could not shoot through it. There was no chance to approach Krag from right or left without being seen for some time before his shotgun would be within range. Krag had chosen his position well, and the only approach was from behind the building across the street.

  This building was empty, and Bush had gotten inside and was
lying there watching the street when the girl came up. Instantly, he perceived his advantage. As the girl left, Krag’s eyes would involuntarily follow her. In that instant he would step from the door and shoot Krag down. It was simple and it was foolproof.

  “You’d better go, ma’am,” Krag said. “It ain’t safe here. I’m staying right where I am until Leason shows.”

  She dropped her hands helplessly and turned away from him. In that instant, Bush Leason stepped from the door across the street and jerked his shotgun to his shoulder. As he did so, he yelled.

  Carol Duchin was too close. Krag shoved her hard with his left hand and stepped quickly right, drawing as he stepped and firing as his right foot touched the walk.

  Afterward, men who saw it said there had never been anything like it before. Leason whipped up his shotgun and yelled, and in the incredibly brief instant, as the butt settled against Leason’s shoulder, Krag pushed the girl, stepped away from her, and drew. And he fired as his gun came level.

  It was split-second timing and the fastest draw that anybody had ever seen in Bradshaw; the .45 slug slammed into Bush Leason’s chest just as he squeezed off his shot, and the buckshot whapped through the air, only beginning to scatter and at least a foot and a half over Krag Moran’s head. And Krag stood there flatfooted and shot Bush again as he stood leaning back against the building. The big man turned sideways and fell into the dust off the edge of the walk.

  As suddenly as that it was done. And then Carol Duchin got to her feet, her face and clothes dusty. She brushed her clothes with quick, impatient hands, and then turned sharply and looked at Krag Moran. “I never want to see you again!” she flared. “Don’t put a foot on my place! Not for any reason whatever!”

  Krag Moran looked after her helplessly, took an involuntary step after her, and then stopped. He glanced once at the body of Bush Leason and the men gathered around it. Then he walked to his horse. Dan Riggs was standing there, his face shadowed with worry. “You’ve played hell!” he said.

  “What about Grimes?”

  “I know, I know! Bush was vicious. He deserved killing, and if ever I saw murder it was his killing of Grimes, but that doesn’t change this. He had friends, and all of the nesters will be sore. They’ll never let it alone.”

  “Then they’ll be mighty foolish.” Krag swung into the saddle, staring gloomily at Carol Duchin. “Why did she get mad?”

  He headed out of town. He had no regrets about the killing. Leason was a type of man that Krag had met before, and they kept on killing and making trouble until somebody shot too fast for them. Yet he found himself upset by the worries of Riggs as well as the attitude of Carol Duchin. Why was she so angry? What was the matter with everybody?

  Moran had the usual dislike for nesters possessed by all cattlemen, yet Riggs had interposed an element of doubt, and he studied it as he rode back to the ranch. Maybe the nesters had an argument, at that. This idea was surprising to him, and he shied away from it.

  As the days passed and the tension grew, he found himself more and more turning to thoughts of Carol. The memory of her face when she came across the street toward him and when she pleaded with him, and then her flashing and angry eyes when she got up out of the dust.

  No use thinking about her, Moran decided. Even had she not been angry at him, what could a girl who owned the cattle she owned want with a drifting cowhand like himself? Yet he did think about her. He thought about her too much. And then the whole Bradshaw country exploded with a bang. Chet Lee’s riders, with several hotheads from the Ryerson outfit, hit the nesters and hit them hard. They ran off several head of cattle, burned haystacks and two barns, killed one man, and shot up several houses. One child was cut by flying glass. And the following morning a special edition of The Bradshaw Journal appeared.

  ARMED MURDERERS RAID

  SLEEPING VALLEY

  Blazing barns, ruined crops and death remained behind last night after another vicious, criminal raid by the murderers, masquerading as cattlemen, who raided the peaceful, sleeping settlement on Squaw Creek.

  Ephraim Hershman, 52 years old, was shot down in defense of his home by gunmen from the Chet Lee and Ryerson ranches when they raided Squaw Valley last night. Two other men were wounded, while young Billy Hedrow, 3 years old, was severely cut by flying glass when the night-riders shot out the windows….

  Dan Riggs was angry and it showed all the way through the news and in the editorial adjoining. In a scathing attack he named names and bitterly assailed the ranchers for their tactics, demanding intervention by the territorial governor.

  Ryerson came stamping out to the bunkhouse, his eyes hard and angry. “Come on!” he yelled. “We’re going in and show that durned printer where he gets off! Come on! Mount up!”

  CHET LEE WAS just arriving in town when the cavalcade from the Ryerson place hit the outskirts of Bradshaw. It was broad daylight, but the streets of the town were empty and deserted.

  Chet Lee was thirty-five, tough as a boot, and with skin like a sunbaked hide. His eyes were cruel, his lips thin and ugly. He shoved Riggs aside and his men went into the print shop, wrecked the hand press, threw the type out into the street, and smashed all the windows out of the shop.

  Though he had ridden along, Krag Moran now stood aside awaiting the end of the destruction. Nobody made a move to harm Dan Riggs, who stood pale and quiet at one side. He said nothing to any of them until the end, and then it was to Ryerson.

  “What good do you think this will do?” he asked quietly. “You can’t stop people from thinking. You can’t throttle the truth. In the end it always comes out. Grimes and Leason were shot in fights, but that last night was wanton murder and destruction of property.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Ryerson flared. “You’re getting off lucky!”

  Lee’s little eyes brightened suddenly. “Maybe,” he said, “a rope is what this feller needs!”

  Dan Riggs looked at Lee without shifting an inch. “It would be like you to think of that,” he said, and Lee struck him across the mouth.

  Riggs got slowly to his feet, blood running down his lips. “You’re fools,” he said quietly. “You don’t seem to realize that if you can destroy the property of others, they can destroy it for you. Or do you realize that when any freedom is destroyed for others, it is destroyed for you, too.

  “You’ve wrecked my shop, ruined my press. Tyrants and bullies have always tried that sort of thing, especially when they are in the wrong.”

  Nobody said anything, Ryerson’s face was white and stiff, and Krag felt suddenly uneasy. Riggs might be a fool but he had courage. It had been a rotten thing for Chet Lee to hit him when he couldn’t fight back.

  “We fought for the right of a free press and free speech back in seventy-six,” Dan Riggs persisted. “Now you would try to destroy the free press because it prints the truth about you. I tell you now, you’ll not succeed.”

  They left him standing there among the ruins of his printing shop and all he owned in the world, and then they walked to the Palace for a drink. Ryerson waved them to the bar.

  “Drinks are on me!” he said. “Drink up!”

  Krag Moran edged around the crowd and stopped at Ryerson’s elbow. “Got my money, boss?” he asked quietly. “I’ve had enough.”

  Ryerson’s eyes hardened. “What kind of talk is that?”

  Chet Lee had turned his head and was staring hard at Moran. “Don’t be a fool!”

  “I’m not a fool. I’m quitting. I want my money. I’ll have no part in that sort of thing this morning. It was a mean, low trick.”

  “You pointing any part of that remark at me?” Lee turned carefully, his flat, wicked eyes on Krag. “I want to know.”

  “I’m not hunting trouble.” Krag spoke flatly. “I spoke my piece. You owe me forty bucks, Ryerson.”

  Ryerson dug his hand into his pocket and slapped two gold eagles on the bar. “That pays you off! Now get out of the country! I want no part of turncoats! If you’re around here after twe
nty-four hours, I’ll hunt you down like a dog!”

  Krag had started to turn away. Now he smiled faintly. “Why, sure! I reckon you would! Well, for your information, Ryerson, I’ll be here!”

  Before they could reply, he strode from the room. Chet Lee stared after him. “I never had no use for that saddle tramp, anyway!”

  Ryerson bit the end off his cigar. His anger was cooling and he was disturbed. Krag was a solid man. Despite Lee, he knew that. Suddenly he was disturbed—or had it been ever since he saw Dan Riggs’s white, strained face? Gloomily, he stared down at his whiskey. What was wrong with him? Was he getting old? He glanced at the harsh face of Chet Lee—why wasn’t he as sure of himself as Lee? Weren’t they here first? Hadn’t they cut hay in the valley for four years? What right had the nesters to move in on them?

  KRAG MORAN WALKED outside and shoved his hat back on his head. Slowly, he built a smoke. Why, he was a damned fool! He had put himself right in the middle by quitting. Now he would be fair game for Leason’s friends, with nobody to stand beside him. Well, that would not be new. He had stood alone before he came here, and he could again.

  He looked down the street. Dan Riggs was squatted in the street, picking up his type. Slowly, Krag drew on his cigarette; then he took it from his lips and snapped it into the gutter. Riggs looked up as his shadow fell across him. His face was still dark with bitterness.

  Krag nodded at it. “Can you make that thing work again? The press, I mean.”

  Riggs stared at the wrecked machine. “I doubt it,” he said quietly. “It was all I had, too. They think nothing of wrecking a man’s life.”

  Krag squatted beside him and picked up a piece of the type and carefully wiped off the sand. “You made a mistake,” he said quietly. “You should have had a gun on your desk.”

  “Would that have stopped them?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m glad I didn’t have it. Although,” there was a flicker of ironic humor in his eyes, “sometimes I don’t feel peaceful. There was a time this afternoon when if I’d had a gun—”