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

  “We’d best say nothing about who we are,” Pike commented, as they sighted the first buildings of Toiyabe. “If we listen we might learn something.”

  “Good idea. You round up some grub, and I’ll roust around and see what I can hear. It’s been a good while, but if we can get some old-timer to talkin’ the rest should be easy.”

  Toiyabe was booming. In the bottom of its steep-walled canyon the town’s few streets were jammed with freighter’s outfits, the recently arrived stage, buckboards from the ranches, and horses lining the hitching rail. Aside from being the supply center for the ranches, it was also headquarters for miners and for the men who worked in the sawmill.

  The Fish Creek Saloon was run by Fish Creek Burns, whose faded blue eyes had looked sadly upon a world that stretched from his boyhood in the Cumberland Gap country through Council Bluffs to the Platte and west to the Rockies and back again by way of Abilene, Dodge, El Paso, Tascosa, and Santa Fe. He was a man of many interests, few loyalties, and no illusions.

  Now, suddenly, his hands stopped, utterly still, on the glass he had been polishing. A man rarely surprised, he was startled now to immobility; slowly then, after a moment, the hands began to move once more. Under the straw-colored brows, the eyes lost their momentary sharpness and assumed the faded, normal lack of lustre. Yet the mind behind them was busy.

  The man who had come through the door was two inches under six feet, but broad in the chest and thick in the shoulders. He was a young man in his twenties, but compact and sharp, the lean, brown face holding the harsh lines of one much older. Fish Creek Burns never forgot a face or a loyalty.

  “Rye,” Locklin said mildly, “it’s been a dusty ride.”

  “This time of year,” Burns agreed, putting bottle and glass before him.

  Down the bar was Chance Varrow, and behind the stranger was a poker table where one of the players was Reed Castle, of the OZ spread. Burns’s eyes shifted to Locklin. “Driftin’?”

  “Stayin’.”

  “Huntin’ a job?”

  “No, but maybe I’ll have an outfit of my own.”

  Burns’s tone was dry and casual as he picked up another glass. “That big man with the black mustache at the table behind you runs a lot of cattle in Antelope Valley, away back,” his eyes met Locklin’s, “where the valley notches the mountains.”

  Jim Locklin was immediately alert. What was the bartender trying to tell him? That ranch in the notch of the hills had belonged to his brother!

  Burns’s face was without expression. He was polishing another glass.

  “Has he had the place long?”

  “Three years or so. He’s doing right well.”

  The last letter from George had been mailed just about three years ago. Jim wanted to turn and look but he did not. “Maybe he could use a hand. Does he have a name?”

  “Reed Castle.” Burns sighted through a glass. “He’s the big man around here. A man who makes money fast makes both friends and enemies. Down the bar, the tall man in the white hat and the blue coat is Chance Varrow, and some say he could have a dozen notches on his guns if he wanted.”

  Varrow was taller than Locklin, with sharply cut features, cold as a prowling fox. As Locklin looked, Varrow’s eyes turned and stopped suddenly on Locklin.

  “The big man in the black broadcloth suit,” Burns continued, “is Creighton Burt, district attorney. A man with nerve, a man of integrity. He doesn’t like Reed Castle.”

  Disturbed by the interest in Varrow’s eyes, Jim leaned his forearms on the bar and asked Burns, “Do I look like somebody you know? Varrow acts like he’s seen me somewhere.”

  Fish Creek kept his eyes on the glass in his hands. “Two or three years ago there was a man around here named George Locklin, and you’re somewhat like him. Some said that Locklin and Varrow weren’t friendly. Varrow hasn’t been here long, either. Right around three years I’d say.”

  “Thanks. I would take it you were friendly to George Locklin?”

  “He was one of the finest men I ever came across. However, I’d not speak his name about town if I were you.”

  “Thank you.” He finished his drink. “By the way, there’s a man travelin’ with me. Tall old man named Nearly Pike. He may be in.”

  Jim Locklin managed a casual glance around the room that took in both Creighton Burt and Reed Castle. The former was large, fat, and untidy. Castle was big, and obviously prosperous. He wore a black mustache, and his face was strong-boned, a domineering face and a bold one, the face of a man who would ride rough-shod over obstacles. Jim turned and went out, letting the doors swing to behind him, turned quickly into the crowd and crossed the street. It would be a mistake to become a focus of their attention too soon.

  Glancing back he saw Chance Varrow standing in the door, staring after him. Locklin went to the harness shop and, after a minute, out the side door to the alley and across to the general store where Pike was loading supplies into a couple of sacks.

  Nearly Pike’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny throat. “Place in Hoss Heaven is lived on,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Some gal moved on the place with an Injun. She’s been havin’ trouble with a man named Reed Castle.”

  Locklin was watching the street through the window. “What else?”

  “Cattle range is sewed up slick and tight between four men. Reed Castle has Antelope Valley north to the mountains. John Shippey has the Monitor and Burly Ives the Smoky. Neil Chase has the Diamond outfit. They won’t let anybody drive through or in.”

  “Get the horses around back and load up. I’m getting some ammunition.” Leaving the older man, Locklin went over to the counter.

  He loved the old, familiar smell of such stores, the smell of spices, freshly ground coffee, new leather, dry goods, and the sweetish smell of gun oil.

  After buying a hundred rounds of .44 ammunition, he glanced at a new shotgun, a short-barreled gun of the express-gun type carried by shotgun messengers. “Give me that scatter-gun,” he said, “and a hundred rounds for it.”

  The storekeeper, a short, stout man, glanced up. “You must figure to fight a war with all that ammunition. And a shotgun? Never cared for ’em myself.”

  Locklin smiled pleasantly. “Good for quail. I like birdmeat.” He loaded the shotgun. “Only empty guns that hurt folks,” he commented, smiling. “I like mine loaded.” He thrust the muzzle of the shotgun into the grocery sack and gathered the top of the burlap around the trigger-guard, carrying it with the stock almost invisible behind his forearm. “As for wars, I never fight unless folks push it on me. However,” he paused briefly, “I plan to go into the cattle business here.”

  The storekeeper’s head came up from the bill he was adding. “If you figure on that you’d better double your order for ammunition. This is a closed country.”

  “Uncle Sam doesn’t say so.”

  “Uncle Sam doesn’t run this country. The Big Four run it, and that means Reed Castle.”

  Jim smiled. “Ever hear,” he asked gently, “of a cowman named George Locklin?”

  The fat man straightened slowly, staring at him. He half turned aside, started to speak and then said nothing. Locklin went to the front door and stepped out, calling back to Pike as he did so. He stepped out right into the middle of trouble.

  Confronting him was a huge back, the top of the shoulders on the level with his eyes, the vest split down the back from the strain of huge shoulders and powerful muscles. The man wore a six-shooter, and his hand gripped the butt. Beyond him Jim could see a young Indian, straight and tall, his face expressionless. He was unarmed.

  “You’re a dirty, thievin’ rustler!” the big man was saying. “Git! Git out of the country! We don’t need your kind.”

  “I steal no cows.”

  “Don’t you be callin’ me no liar!” The big man’s fingers grasped the gun butt tighter and he started to draw.

  Locklin’s left hand shot out and grasped the big man’s wrist. With a startled grunt the big man be
gan to turn, and Locklin let him turn but at the same time he shoved up and back on the gun wrist he held, pushing the elbow higher until the gun muzzle was back of the holster.

  The big man struck viciously, but Locklin was too close, and the blow curled around his neck. At the same time he was shoving the big man back and keeping him off balance. The big man’s back slammed against an awning-post, and Jim twisted hard on the wrist. The gun dropped from the man’s fingers, and instantly Jim stepped back and drew the shotgun from the sack.

  “The Indian wasn’t armed,” he said, “and I’ll see no man murdered.”

  The flash of sunlight on the blue-black barrel of the shotgun had cleared the street behind the big man as if by magic.

  Slowly the big man began to rub his wrist. “You’d no call to butt in, stranger. Nobody pushes Ives around.”

  “We’ve no quarrel,” Locklin said, “unless you come looking for it, or unless you’re one of those who murdered my brother and stole his ranch.”

  There was silence in the street. Somebody shifted his weight and the boardwalk creaked. “Who—? What did you say your name was?”

  “My name is Locklin, Ives. Jim Locklin, brother to George Locklin who was dry-gulched and murdered up in the Monitors about three years ago.”

  Ives backed another step, still rubbing his wrist. He glanced around hastily as if looking for a way out or for help.

  Chance Varrow stood across the street; near him was Reed Castle. “Those are hard words, friend,” Varrow said. “Before you make such a statement you’d better have proof.”

  “I have proof of the murder. As yet I do not have the murderers.”

  “You are mistaken,” Reed Castle said carelessly, but speaking for the onlookers more than for him. “George Locklin sold his ranch to me and left the country. Whatever you think you know is a mistake. George left here under his own power.”

  Jim’s shotgun held steady. “Castle,” he replied, his voice ringing the length of the street, “you’re a liar! I have a letter from my brother telling me of the trouble he was having and asking me to come out. He had no intention of selling out, and he did have plans for developing the ranch.

  “As for your ownership, I am asking right now, before the town of Toiyabe, for you to produce a bill of sale. I want to see it in the office of Creighton Burt not later than the day after tomorrow.”

  There was no movement; the street held its silence. Nobody realized better than Reed Castle the position he faced. Since acquiring the Antelope Valley property nothing had stopped him. His personality and strength had drawn Shippey, Chase, and Ives to him and into the combine he formed. Other cattlemen had been frozen out or driven out, and Castle was building strong and deep.

  In the town itself only Creighton Burt held out against him in the open, although Castle was well aware that many lesser men both feared and hated him.

  Now he had been called a liar in the open street. He had been indirectly accused of murder and theft. Nor would the story stop with the borders of this small town. It would be told and repeated in Carson, Austin, and Eureka.

  “We’ll make it noon, Castle. Show up with your bill of sale, and if you have one the signature had better be valid!”

  Coolly, he lowered his shotgun, picked up the dropped sack, and walked across the street. Nearly Pike waited at the corner of the alley, his rifle in his hands. “Wal, son, you sure laid down your argument. Now they’ve got to put up or shut up.”

  The ride to Horse Heaven was by a devious route. Neither man knew exactly where they were going, just a general direction and some landmarks to look for. They headed northeast when leaving Toiyabe, then turned back to the southwest through Ackerman Canyon. Daylight found them camped near Antelope Peak.

  From there they turned back into the hills, climbing steadily through the pines and aspen, riding warily, for they understood their situation without discussion. The easy way out, perhaps the only way, was to have Locklin killed so he could not appear at Burt’s office. If he did not appear it could be shrugged off as the talk of some loud-mouthed drifter. There would be criticism, but Castle could merely say that he had been there, ready with his bill of sale, and where was this so-called Locklin fellow?

  The narrow trail through the trees ended in a long basin, a grass-covered basin scattered here and there with clumps of trees and brush. On the far side, nestled against a corner of the mountain, was a cabin. A lazy trail of smoke mounted toward the sky.

  “You kicked into an anthill,” Pike commented. “Castle will have men ridin’ the hills huntin’ you.”

  Locklin had been thinking of that, and now they drew up in the shadow of some pines and studied the cabin and its vicinity with careful attention. A saddled horse was tied near the corral, and three other horses were loose in the corral.

  As they watched, two people came into sight, a girl from the cabin and an Indian from the rocks near the cliff. “That’s the Injun you spoke for, Jim. I’d know that odd limp anywhere.”

  They had no sooner broken from cover than they were seen. The girl started toward the cabin, but something said by the Indian stopped her, and she turned back.

  What he had expected he was not sure, but certainly not what he found. She was a tall, beautifully shaped girl with dark skin, from which her gray eyes were both startling and lovely. She studied him carefully as he drew near, but she was by no means frightened. She had poise and manner, and seemed perfectly sure of herself. The Indian was wearing a gun now.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” Jim said. “I’m Locklin. I own this place.”

  “I know who you are. As to owning this place, that’s a matter for discussion. Get down and come in, will you? Patch told me what you did for him.”

  Inside she busied herself putting food on the table and getting coffee started. “I’m Army Locklin. Army being short for Armorel, the Locklin because I was married to your brother.”

  “You were what?”

  “We were married the day he disappeared. He got word of trouble at the ranch just after reaching town. He left me in town and rushed back to the place and right into an ambush. He was shot down, got away into the brush, and that was the last he was seen.”

  “I don’t know what to say. George said nothing of you in his letters.”

  She smiled bitterly. “He did not know me then. I came to Toiyabe to marry Reed Castle, but we did not see eye to eye on several subjects, and I refused to go through with it.

  “Reed became angry and threatened me, then he tried to get the people at the hotel to turn me out. George had had trouble with Reed, so when he heard of it he came to me and offered his assistance.”

  Her eyes turned to Jim. “I was alone in the world, and it had taken the last of my money to come here from San Francisco. I told George I did not love him, but if he really wanted me I’d try to become a good wife. We were married, but I never had a chance to be anything to him.

  “Now,” she added, “you know why I have no use for Castle, and why he wants me out of the country.”

  “How’d you meet him in the first place?”

  “My father died, and he did not leave me very much. I had friends back east who knew Reed Castle, and they told him about me and sent him a picture. He proposed by mail. It all seemed very romantic, a handsome western rancher and all that.”

  “Why did you suggest I might not own this place?”

  “You own half of it. I own the other half. I filed a claim on the land that lies alongside of your ranch.

  “You see, George gave me money when we were married. He did not have all that much, but he did not want me to feel bound, and if I was unhappy I could leave whenever I wished.

  “After George disappeared Reed came forward with a bill of sale and claimed the ranch. He said George had changed his mind about being married to me, had sold the ranch and skipped out. I did not believe a word of it, but I could prove nothing. Everybody was feeling very sorry for me, but after all, I had not known George but a few days, and he mi
ght have decided marriage was not for him. I could prove nothing.”

  “But you stayed on?”

  “There was nowhere to go. George might reappear. And then, George had told me you were coming.” She paused. “Did—did George ever mention a silver strike? Not far from here?”

  “Silver?” He frowned, trying to think back. There had been a number of letters, early on. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Then he indicated the bunkhouse where the Indian had gone. “What about Patch? Where does he fit in?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. He rode in here one day on a flea-bitten roan pony, and wanted to work for me. I did need help, but had so little money. He told me he wanted to work for me and I could pay him when I wished. Since then he has worked hard, has been loyal, too, only when Reed Castle is around he always gets out of sight. I think he may be afraid of him.”

  “Why do you call him Patch? Is he an Apache?”

  “He is, but he would give me no name, so I began calling him that.”

  There was no accounting for Indians. They had their own ideas, and followed them. Few Apaches could be found this far north and west, for they loved their southwestern desert country, but there were wanderers from all tribes.

  Reed Castle was no fool. Crooked he might be, but he was also intelligent and shrewd, and the two were rarely the same thing. He would know that any bill of sale he might have would be an obvious forgery, so he must have other irons in the fire. Of course, he knew George Locklin was dead, and he had had nothing to worry about until now.

  Jim Locklin wanted more than simply to recover the ranch. He wanted to face the man who had killed George. At this date the proof would be hard to come by, but the more he thought about it the more he wondered. George had always been a thorough man who left little to chance, and he had lived long enough to reach the cave on Savory Creek. As he certainly had not lived with that hole in his head, he must have received the spinal wound first, but had somehow kept going until he reached the cave.

  He had undoubtedly been helpless when he was killed, but had he been helpless when he arrived? How much time had he before his lower limbs became paralyzed?