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

  At that very instant a door opened in the other room, and he saw light under the door before him. He heard a startled gasp from Elaine and Lee Martin’s voice, taunting, familiar.

  “What’s the matter? Scared?” Martin laughed. “If you’d kept that pretty mouth of yours shut, your dad would still be all right! You tellin’ him Sandifer was correct about the Katrishens an’ that he shouldn’t of fired him!”

  “He shouldn’t have,” the girl said quietly. “If he was here now, he’d kill you. Get out of my room.”

  “Maybe I ain’t ready to go?” he taunted. “An’ from now on I’m goin’ to come an’ go as I like.”

  His steps advanced into the room, and Jim tightened his grip on the knob. He remembered that lock, and it was not set very securely. Suddenly, an idea came to him. Turning, he picked up an old glass lamp, large and ornate. Balancing it momentarily in his hand, he drew it back and hurled it with a long overhand swing through the window!

  Glass crashed on the veranda, and there the lamp hit, went down a step, and stayed there. Inside the girl’s room, there was a startled exclamation, and he heard running footsteps from both the girl’s room and the old man’s. Somebody yelled, “What’s that? What happened?” And he hurled his shoulder against the door.

  As he had expected, the flimsy lock carried away and he was catapulted through the door into Elaine’s bedroom. Catching himself, he wheeled and sprang for the door that opened into the living room beyond. He reached it just as Mont jerked the curtain back, but not wanting to endanger the girl, he swung hard with his fist instead of drawing his gun.

  The blow came out of a clear sky to smash Mont on the jaw, and he staggered back into the room. Jim Sandifer sprang through, legs spread, hands wide.

  “You, Martin!” he said sharply. “Draw!”

  Lee Martin was a killer, but no gunman. White to the lips, his eyes deadly, he sprang behind his mother and grabbed for the shotgun. “Shoot, Jim!” Elaine cried. “Shoot!”

  He could not. Rose Martin stood between him and his target, and Martin had the shotgun now and was swinging it. Jim lunged, shoving the table over, and the lamp shattered in a crash. He fired and then fired again. Flame stabbed the darkness at him, and he fell back against the wall, switching his gun. Fire laced the darkness into a stabbing crimson crossfire, and the room thundered with sound and then died to stillness that was the stillness of death itself.

  No sound remained, only the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the smell of coal oil and the faint, sickish-sweet smell of blood. His guns ready, Jim crouched in the darkness, alert for movement. Somebody groaned and then sighed deeply, and a spur grated on the floor. From the next room, Gray Bowen called weakly. “Daughter? Daughter, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  There was no movement yet, but the darkness grew more familiar. Jim’s eyes became more accustomed to it. He could see no one standing. Yet it was Elaine who broke the stillness.

  “Jim? Jim, are you all right? Oh, Jim—are you safe?”

  Maybe they were waiting for this.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  “Light your lamp, will you?” Deliberately, he moved, and there was no sound within the room—only outside, a running of feet on the hard-packed earth. Then a door slammed open, and Sparkman stood there, gun in hand.

  “It’s all right, I think,” Sandifer said. “We shot it out.”

  Elaine entered the room with a light and caught herself with a gasp at the sight before her. Jim reached for the lamp.

  “Go to your father,” he said swiftly. “We’ll take care of this.”

  Sparkman looked around, followed into the room by Grimes. “Good grief!” he gasped. “They are all dead! All of them!”

  “The woman, too?” Sandifer’s face paled. “I hope I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t,” Grimes said. “She was shot in the back by her own son. Shootin’ in the dark, blind an’ gun crazy.”

  “Maybe it’s better,” Sparkman said. “She was an old hellion.”

  Klee Mont had caught his right at the end of his eyebrow, and a second shot along the ribs. Sandifer walked away from him and stood over Lee Martin. His face twisted in a sneer, the dead man lay sprawled on the floor, literally shot to doll rags.

  “You didn’t miss many,” Sparkman said grimly.

  “I didn’t figure to,” Jim said. “I’ll see the old man and then give you a hand.”

  “Forget it” Grimes looked up, his eyes faintly humorous. “You stay in there. An’ don’t spend all your time with the old man. We need a new setup on this here spread, an’ with a new son-in-law who’s a first-rate cattleman, Gray could set back an’ relax!”

  Sandifer stopped with his hand on the curtain. “Maybe you got something there,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe you have!”

  “You can take my word for it,” Elaine said, stepping into the door beside Jim. “He has! He surely has!”

  A Man Named Utah

  The small glow of the lamp over the hotel register, shaded as it was, threw his cheekbones into high relief and left his eyes hollows of darkness. The night clerk saw only a big man, in dusty range clothes, who signed his name in the slow, cramped manner of a man unaccustomed to the pen. Hibbs handed him his key and the man turned and started up the steps.

  As he climbed, the light traveled down over his lean hips and picked out the dull luster of walnut-stocked guns, then slid down to worn boots and California-style spurs. When the heels vanished, Hibbs waited no longer but turned the register and peered at the name. Without another instant of delay he came from behind the counter, cast one quick glance up the stairs, and bustled out the door.

  The quick, upward glance did not penetrate the darkness. Had it done so, he would have seen the stranger standing in the shadows at the head of the steps, watching him. When Hibbs hurried across the dark street, the rider was at his window, looking down. The clerk disappeared into an alley.

  It was a small thing, but the rider knew the wheels had begun to turn. Already they knew of his presence, and already he had gathered his first fragment of a fact. Somebody was almighty interested in his arrival, and that somebody had a working deal with the hotel clerk. Not much to know, but a beginning.

  The clerk had hurried on for several hundred feet then turned and stopped by a window with three inches of opening. He tapped lightly with a coin, and at a cautious response, he whispered, “Hibbs, here. Gent just registered as Utah Blaine, El Paso.”

  “All right.”

  Disappointed at the lack of reaction, Hibbs waited for something else to be said; then, when it did not come, he added, “He looks salty.”

  “All right.”

  Hibbs walked slowly back to the hotel. His round, rather querulous face sagged with vague disappointment.

  THE MAN BEHIND the darkened window rolled on his side and picked up a carefully prepared cigarette that lay on the table by the bed. When it was lit he lay back, his head on the bunched-up pillow. Against the vague light of the window, the cigarette glowed and he stared up into darkness.

  How much longer dared he continue? The pickings were rich, but he was feeling the uneasiness that preceded danger. He had a bag full, no doubt about that. Maybe it was time to pull his stakes.

  He knew nothing of Blaine, yet that the man had been asked here was evidence that someone believed he was the man for the job.

  Jack Storey had been tough and fast … a drunken miner named Peterson had been egged into shooting him in the back. Three other marshals preceded him and they were buried in a neat row on the hill. The man on the bed inhaled deeply and knew he had managed well up to now, but his luck was sure to run out.

  He had the gold taken from miners, gamblers, and casual travelers and only Hibbs knew who he was, only he knew the murders and robberies had been engineered by one man. And the clerk could be removed.

  So he would quit at last. This was what he had planned when he first came west, to work at a quiet job and amass a fortune by
robbery and murder—then he would quit, go east, and live a quiet, ordered life from then on.

  From the beginning he had known there was a limit. So far he was unsuspected. He was liked by many. His whole plan had depended on the crimes seeming to be unrelated so they would be considered casual crimes rather than a series planned and carried out by either one man or a gang.

  Yet it would be foolish to continue. Three marshals … it was too many. Not too many lives, just too many chances. Too many risks of discovery. No matter how shrewd this new man might be, or how dumb, it was time to quit. He would not pull even one more job. He was through. Putting out the stub of his cigarette, he turned over and quietly went to sleep.

  A SOLID-LOOKING MAN in a black suit and boots was sitting on the creek bank when Utah Blaine rode up. The new marshal’s sun-darkened face had a shy grin that livened his features. “Hi, Tom! Mighty good to see you.”

  “Sure is.” The older man gripped his hand. “Long time since the old days on the Neuces.”

  Blaine started to build a smoke. “So, what’re you gettin’ me into?”

  Tom Church dug at the sand with a stick. “I don’t really know. Maybe I’m crazy in the head. We’ve had fourteen murders this past year, an’ it worries me some. This here town was started by my dad, an’ he set store by it. We’ve always had the usual cowpuncher shootin’s an’ the like of that, but something’s different. No other year since we started did we have more’n three or four.”

  He talked quietly and to the point while Blaine smoked. Nobody in town showed an unusual prosperity. No toughs were hanging around town that couldn’t be accounted for. Nobody left town suddenly. Nobody hinted at secrets. The murdered man was always alone, although in two cases he had been left alone only a matter of minutes. All the murdered men had been carrying large sums of money.

  A half-dozen men carrying smaller amounts had left town unhindered; only two of the fourteen had made killings at gambling. Others had worked claims, sold herds of cattle or horses. All fourteen had been killed silently, with knife, noose, or club. Which argued a killer who wanted no attention. “This town means a lot to us. My boys are growin’ up here, an’ two of the men killed were good friends of mine. I think there’s a well-organized gang behind it.”

  “Got a hunch you’re wrong, Tom.”

  “You think there’s no connection?”

  “I think they tie up, but I don’t think it’s a gang. I think it is just one man.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Look at it. Nobody has flashed any money and nobody has talked while drunk. That’s unusual for a gang. You know there’s always one wheel that won’t mesh. I’ll get to work on it.”

  Tom Church got up and brushed off his pants. “All right, but be careful. We’ve lost three marshals in the last ten months.”

  ITWASTO UTAH BLAINE’S advantage that he did not make a big show of looking for information. He did not throw his weight around. He let people know that he thought the marshal’s job was mighty easy if people would just let him be. And while he sat around, he listened.

  Hibbs at the hotel might be the key. Hibbs had rushed word of his coming to someone, and Blaine had seen the street he went into. For the first four days Utah Blaine strolled about, rode into the hills, talked little, and listened a lot. He heard a good deal of gossip about conditions of the claims, who was making it and who wasn’t. There was talk about cattle and cattle prices. Most of this talk took place on the worn bench outside the barbershop.

  It was late on the fourth night that he received his first test as marshal.

  Blaine was at a table in a back corner of the saloon when a wide-shouldered young man with red hair smashed through the swinging doors and glared around him. Obviously, he had been drinking, just as obviously, he was not so drunk that his speech was slurred or his reactions slow. “Where’s that two-bit marshal?” he demanded.

  “Over here. What’s on your mind?”

  The casual tone upset Red Williams, who was trouble-hunting. Nevertheless, he took three quick steps toward Blaine, and Utah did not move. “You’re the marshal? Well, I hear we got to check our guns! You figurin’ to take mine away from me? If you do, get started!”

  Blaine chuckled. “Red,” he said conversationally, “don’t you get enough trouble wrestlin’ steers? Why don’t you fork your bronc and head on for home?”

  Red Williams was disturbed. It was not going as expected. Instead of being a hard-eyed marshal who immediately started for him, this man talked like another cowhand. “You tellin’ me to get out of town?” he demanded.

  “Just advisin’,” Utah replied casually. “If you figure to do a day’s work tomorrow, you better sleep it off.” He pushed his hat back on his head. “I call to mind one time when I rode for Shanghai Pierce. We was—”

  “You rode for Shanghai?” Red’s truculence was forgotten.

  “Took a herd over the trail for him in ’sixty-seven,” Utah said. “The next year I took one up the trail for Slaughter.”

  Red Williams swallowed hard, his stomach sick with sudden realization. “You … you’re that Blaine? The one who stopped the herd cuttin’ north of Doan’s Store?”

  “Yeah,” Blaine replied quietly. “That was later.”

  “Wow!” Red backed up, suddenly grinning. “Mister, if that’s who you are, this town is off-limits for my kind of trouble!”

  SQUAW CREEK WAS impressed but not convinced. Twice Blaine quietly talked his way out of trouble that with any other marshal would have meant shooting. Days passed with no gunfights, no brawls, and surprisingly, no robberies and murders.

  Once, sitting on the bench in front of the barbershop, he was asked about the killings of Van Hewit and Ned Harris, the two last murders before he took the job of marshal. He shrugged and replied, “I’ll handle the crime that comes my way, but I say let the dead past keep its dead.”

  Before the saloons opened, the benches in front of the barbershop were the usual loafing place. It was there he stopped to gather what facts he could. “Nice idea,” he commented. “Gives a man a place to sit and talk.”

  “Pickard’s idea,” they told him. “Built ’em for his customers to wait on.”

  Pickard was a man of medium height, smooth-faced but for a flowing mustache. Square-jawed and square-bodied, he was a friendly man, skillful at his trade, and a good listener. “Mighty fine barber,” Tom Church said, “I’ll be sorry when he goes.”

  “He’s leavin’?” Blaine asked.

  “Brother died, back in Illinois. Got to go back and manage the property.”

  It was their second meeting since Blaine’s arrival, and Church was visibly disturbed. “The rest of the city council, the men who pay your salary, Utah, they’re complaining. You’ve kept it quiet, or it’s been quiet, but you’ve found no killer. I promised that you would.”

  “You don’t catch a killer right away any more than you take a herd to Montana by wishin’ it there.”

  He knew more than he was telling Tom Church. Things were beginning to add up. All the killings had been within five miles of town. All but two had taken place at night or early in the morning. The two had occurred at midday. Five men lived on that street into which Hibbs had gone on the night of his arrival. Childress, Hunt, Newcomb, Jones … and Tom Church.

  Actually, it was a one-sided street. The houses faced south, which had them looking across the street at the cottonwoods that line Squaw Creek. Behind those cottonwoods were the back doors of the business buildings on Main Street. The saloon, barbershop, marshal’s office, harness shop, and general store backed up to the trees.

  Hibbs lived in the hotel and did not drink. He was an odd personality, not talkative, and yet he had a habit of always being around when a conversation developed. Unobtrusively, Utah Blaine watched him and waited, knowing his time would come.

  Hibbs was never found near the barbershop. For a man so interested in gossip, this was interesting if not odd. Hibbs went to the barbershop only when he neede
d a haircut.

  From the beginning Blaine had known that Hibbs was his key to the situation, yet while watching Hibbs, he had listened and studied the town, and one by one he eliminated the possibilities. The more men he eliminated, the more certain he became of the killer’s cunning. He had left no loose ends.

  Utah Blaine had learned, long since, how to apply simple logic to a problem. Men were creatures of habit. Therefore he must observe the habits of the possible suspects and watch for any deviation from the usual.

  Opportunity was a consideration. Not more than a half-dozen men in town would have been free to move at the hours of the two midday crimes. Childress could not leave his store at the noon hour, and had a wife who insisted upon his being on time for supper. Hunt was a man who habitually drank his supper at the saloon, a convivial soul whose absence would have been noted and commented upon. So it was with most of the others, yet Pickard was a bachelor. He had means of learning, through the talk around the shop, of who had made strikes and who did not, and he could be safely absent at the hours of crimes. Moreover, the cottonwood-cloaked creek bed back of the shop offered an easy means of leaving and returning to town unobserved. All of these were logical reasons for suspicion, but none of it was proof.

  On the morning of his tenth day in town, Utah went to the barbershop for a shave. Pickard had gentle hands and he worked carefully and swiftly. He was shaving Utah’s throat when Utah said, from under Pickard’s left hand, “Goin’ to be a break soon. I’ve got a lead on the man who’s been doin’ the killing around here.”

  For only a second the razor stopped moving, and then it continued more slowly. “I thought,” Pickard said, “it was the work of casual drifters, or maybe a gang.”

  “No,” Blaine said decidedly, “it’s been one man. One mighty, shrewd man. He’s done it all, and he’s been smart enough to protect himself. But every man has to have help, an’ I’ve got a lead on that.”

  Pickard started to strop his razor, and then the door opened, and closed. “How are you, Mr. Church? Blaine tells me he has a lead on those murders we used to have before he came.”