The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 9

  Rifle in hand he crossed to the house, pausing on the step to turn for one more careful yet uneasy glance.

  The kitchen was empty but for a bare table and a broken chair that lay on its side. Crossing to the fireplace he turned a charred stick with the muzzle of his rifle, then knelt and put his fingers upon it for an instant. It was cold and dead.

  There were two more rooms. Using his rifle like an extension of his arm he pushed open the doors, but there was nothing but a dried-out, sunbaked boot and a coat that had been dropped on the floor. There was no dust on the coat, however, and it lay in a scuffle of recent footprints … in this abandoned place here was something that did not fit, something important to his quest.

  Crossing to the coat he touched it with gentle fingers, and found a piece of board shoved down in the inside pocket. On it something had been scratched with a nail:

  Just rode in, Lew Stebbins—

  Monty Short—a stranger.

  It was signed by Pike.

  He stepped outside and looked slowly around. By now they would be miles from here, for they had not known he was coming. In growing fear he realized what they must have left behind. Grimly, he dropped the coat to his feet and slipped the thong off of his right-hand gun. He listened, and heard only the trickle of water, the wind, and an aimless tapping that came at intervals. The tapping drew him and he walked around the end of the corral toward the shed.

  Pike was suspended by his wrists, arms spread wide and tied to poles of the shed wall. His chin hung down on his chest, and his toes just barely touched the earth. His shirt had been ripped from his body and his body had been beaten by a length of trace chain which now hung over the top bar of the corral. It was the wind, moving that chain in the hard gusts, that caused the tapping he had heard.

  Pike had been dead for several hours, yet he had lived long enough.… With one toe he had scratched an arrow, pointing west.

  Until he had met Pike, the trails Jake Molina had ridden were ridden alone, for it was his nature to ride alone, to ask nothing of any man but to be let alone. With Pike he had gone up the trail to Kansas, and he knew what Pike would have done for him, and what he must do for Pike. Above all there was Tom Gore’s family to think of, and those neighbors who had trusted him with their cattle.

  He buried Pike where the shack cast a shadow, and put a marker over the grave. Once, straightening up suddenly, he caught a flash of light from a hillside, and then he worked on and finished his job, sure he was being watched.

  He rode out of the ranch yard at a lope and went up to the crest of the ridge, then went west holding to the skyline. Usually a bad thing to do, he did it now because the country lay wide and he’d rather see than worry about being seen. He headed due west, following the trail of the three riders until it broke off and went into the badlands to the south.

  On the third morning he started early and when well down the trail he turned off and doubled back parallel to the route he had followed. He was back behind a clump of mesquite but had the trail fairly covered, and he waited no more than an hour.

  Through the leaves he saw a man in a black suit coat and a black hat of more expensive make than a cowhand could afford. The man’s face was wide and strongly boned, and although his saddle was worn from use, the boots had been well polished before the dust fell on them.

  When the man had gone by Molina stepped into the trail. “You’d better have a good reason for following me, mister, and I’d better like the reason.”

  “I believe we should talk,” the man said. “I think we’re doing the same job.”

  Molina waited, never taking his eyes off the stranger.

  “You buried a man back yonder, and you’re trailing the three men who killed him. I want those men, too,” the man continued.

  “If you’re the law you’re not needed. If you’re an outlaw you’re trailing men who don’t want company.”

  “I’m a Pinkerton man.”

  “Most places that would get you killed.”

  “My name is Hale. Do you know who you’re following?”

  “Pike told me.”

  Hale looked at him carefully. “Now, that’s interesting. Pike was dead before you got there because I was there before you were. He couldn’t tell you anything.”

  Molina took the piece of shingle from his pocket, and explained how he found it.

  “Pike was a shrewd man. He also knew me, and he knew how I think. He also knew that I know what they want, and somehow he thought things out so that when they lead me to the place, I’ll be the one who finds it.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes … it belongs to friends of ours.”

  Hale lit a cigar. “My job is to get those men and I can use help just as much as you can. Monty Short is a gunman, and Stebbins was a buffalo hunter and is one of the best rifle shots around. I don’t know the other man, but I’ve an idea. Why don’t we ride together?”

  “Up to you … I’m riding west. Come along if you’ve a mind to.”

  The country was broken into canyons now, the slopes covered with scattered juniper. Nor was the trail difficult to follow, for at no time had there been an effort to conceal it; the men had no reason to believe themselves followed.

  “Nobody ever comes into this country,” Molina said, “too dry for ranching these years, no more buffalo, so the Comanches rarely come. It’s an empty land.”

  “Want to tell me about the money?”

  “Tom Gore drove cattle belonging to some friends and himself to Dodge. He sold out for thirty thousand in gold and started home, and then he got the idea that some of his hands were going to rob him, so he gave a message to Pike telling him to take it to the ranch, and telling where the gold was, then he slipped out one night and hid the gold. When they murdered him for it a few nights later, they found nothing.”

  “And you know where it is?”

  “Only Pike knew, so Pike had to tell them when he saw they were going to kill him anyway. Otherwise nobody would ever know where it was … he’s relying on me to trail them and find it before they do, failing that, to take it from them.”

  “A large order.”

  It was cold, with a chill wind blowing over the country and moaning in the canyons. The trail of the three riders had vanished. Hale studied the earth, but saw nothing. Molina did not slow his pace, nor did he pause to look around.

  “You know where you’re going?” Hale asked mildly.

  “Sure … only three ways they can go from out here. Everything in the desert that moves has to move toward a water hole. Over there,” he pointed southeast, “are the Comanche Wells … seventy miles as the crow flies, and out of the way for Tom Gore, who was heading home.

  “Gore was coming from the northwest, but he never got this far. So the Wells are out. That leaves Lost Lake and the Wagon Camp. They found Gore’s body at Lost Lake, so my guess would be Wagon Camp or some dry camp near there.”

  “I see.” Hale considered the subject. “What if they don’t think the same way?”

  “They will. They’ve got to. All life is tied to water holes here, and they know every camp because two of them, at least, rode with Gore when he was killed.”

  Molina drew up, studying the ground. He walked his horse forward a little, then drew up again. “That’s funny. They’re going to Lost Lake.”

  Hale lit a cigar and waited. He was out of his depth and realized it. He had believed himself a good tracker, yet he could see nothing here, no sign of passage more than a crow might have left. Molina rode on a few steps farther, then returned.

  “They’re going to Lost Lake, so we’ll cut across country to Wagon Camp.”

  “What if we lose them?”

  “We won’t.”

  They came up to Wagon Camp in the cool of the evening, and watered their horses at the seep and stood in the stillness, looking around them. The wind ruffled the water in the pool, and Molina looked around carefully. A quail called in the shadows.

  “We’re here,” Ha
le said, “or were you just guessing?”

  “The gold will be here,” Molina said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Squatting over a small fire built from gathered sticks and buffalo chips, Hale began to prepare their food. He was a big man and in his shirtsleeves the bulging muscles in his arms stretched his shirt. He wore suspenders and sleeve garters. Jake dipped water for coffee and gathered more fuel.

  The Wagon Camp was only slightly less barren than the country around. Here where the water from the seep irrigated a small meadow and some bordering trees, there were two dozen scattered cottonwoods, several of them huge and ancient; there were some vines, willow brush, and farther away, low-growing mesquite and prickly pear.

  “We’ve got a day for sure,” Molina said, “another day for possible. Then we can get set for trouble, because they’ll be along.”

  Hale looked around doubtfully. “The gold could be buried anywhere,” he said, “how would a man know? A few days of the blowing this country gets and it would look like any other place.”

  “He didn’t bury it.” Molina squatted on his heels and fed sticks into the fire. “He would have been afraid of the noise. He hid it someplace that was ready for him.”

  “Noise?”

  “Digging … at night it would have awakened everybody. Even if he dug it out with his hands it would have to be a pretty fair-sized hole, and men on the trail sleep mighty light.”

  Yet by sundown the following day they were no closer to the solution. Every hole in the rocks behind the pool, and there were not many, had been examined. Trees, brush piles, everywhere either of them could imagine had been carefully checked. It could not have been far from camp, yet they looked and looked without luck.

  Hale was irritable. “Molina, you’ve had it your way. Now we’re here, and for all we know they’ve got your gold and have ridden out of the country. I say we mount up and ride out of here.”

  Molina glanced up. “You ride out. That gold is here, and sooner or later they’ll come. Maybe tonight.”

  Hale got up and walked to his horse. He picked up his saddle to swing to his horse’s back but when he looked across the saddle blanket he froze. “I see them,” he said. “They’re coming now, and they’ve seen our fire.”

  “Sit tight then, and be ready.”

  They came riding, spread out and ready for trouble. They drew up and Molina looked up and said, “Light and set. The coffee’s hot.”

  “Where’d you come from?” Stebbins was doing the talking. Short was beside him, the stranger a little behind. He was a thin, narrow-faced man with empty eyes.

  “Fort Griffin,” Molina lied coolly, holding his cup in his left hand.

  They did not like it, that was obvious enough. They didn’t like Hale sitting there with a shotgun across his lap, either.

  These were the men who had tortured and killed Pike. Molina thought of that and grew hard and cold inside.

  “You’re off the trail, aren’t you?” he asked. “This is one of the loneliest water holes in creation.”

  Monty Short got down from his horse. “I’ll try that coffee,” he said, and held out a cup for it.

  Molina smiled at him. “There’s the pot. Pour it for yourself.”

  Molina’s words had apparently aroused the stranger’s curiosity, and he sized Molina up with attentive eyes.

  “You might be off the trail yourself,” the stranger suggested. “This is, as you say, a lonely water hole.”

  “Used to be good country,” Molina agreed, conversationally, “there was good grass all through here.” He indicated Hale. “This man is Bob Hale; he’s a cattle buyer, and finances some ranching operations. We figured to start us a place right here if the grass is good.”

  Stebbins chuckled without humor. “A man’s lucky to find feed for his horse. You couldn’t run ten head on ten square miles of it now.”

  The stranger was still watching Molina and suddenly he said, “I don’t like him, Lew,” he indicated Molina, “this one is smart.”

  All three looked at Molina, and ever so gently Hale’s shotgun moved so it was still on his lap but pointed casually at the group. The movement went unobserved with all attention centered on Molina.

  Molina lifted his coffee cup and sipped a swallow of coffee, and then said quietly, “So you don’t like it. We got here first. We’re staying. If you boys want to use the water, you’re welcome.”

  “We think you’re the ones who should leave,” Short spoke suddenly. “We think you should mount up and ride out.”

  Molina smiled wryly. “Now, that’s foolish talk, Monty. You might get us but we’d take a couple of you with us, and probably all three. You and Lew aren’t going to buy trouble you don’t need.”

  Molina merely looked at them. “I told you … I came here from Fort Griffin, but I’ve also been in Mobeetie. What you do is your own business, but I wouldn’t go back that way with posters on both of you.”

  Stebbins turned abruptly away, and as he did so, he saw the shotgun in Hale’s hands. “Let’s build a fire, Monty,” he said, and he walked away. After an instant’s hesitation, the others followed, the stranger lingering to take a last, careful look at Molina.

  When they had gone, Molina sat down and filled his cup. “If I could only think!” he said angrily. “I know the stuff is here.” Then he looked across his cup at Hale. “Which one are you after?”

  “Short and Stebbins … train holdup. They didn’t get much, but that doesn’t matter to us. That other one … he should be wanted somewhere.”

  It was after midnight, and Hale was on guard when they heard the wagon. Hale had been watching the other fire. He wanted his prisoners and expected to take them when they fell asleep, but they had a man on watch also, and there was small chance to even make a move without being seen. Then he heard the sound of wheels.

  Hale did not believe what he heard, and neither did Stebbins, who was on watch in the other camp. Stebbins got to his feet and drew back from the fire, and Hale did likewise. Somehow the sound got through to Molina and he sat up.

  The wagon rolled in from the darkness, drawn by two mules, and stopped on the edge of the firelight. There was a bearded man on the seat, and beside him a girl.

  She was young; Molina saw that quickly … and her eyes found his across the intervening space with what seemed to be a plea for help. Yet that was foolish … he could not read a glance at that distance … but of one thing he was sure; she did not belong with the man on the wagon seat beside her.

  When he got down and the firelight fell on his face, Molina saw the man was old, but still strong and wiry, and there was a sly, suspicious way about him that Molina distrusted.

  “Quite a settlement,” the old man looked around inquisitively, “somethin’ goin’ on?”

  “Just passing through,” Molina said. “How about you?”

  The old man chuckled. “Might say we’re passin’ through, ourselves. My name’s Barnes … that there’s my niece, name of Ruth Crandall.” He looked around carefully, his eyes remaining on the other fire for the longest time.

  “Now, there,” he said, his eyes on the stranger, “is a man to remember.”

  “You know him?”

  “Why, sure. I’d say I know him … but he don’t know me. Not yet, he don’t.” He threw a shrewd glance at Molina. “Name of Van Hagan … a man well known in Montana and Wyoming.”

  He peered around. “Been some time since folks camped around here, I expect.” He paused. “Can’t see how anybody would drive cattle through here.”

  “Nobody has,” Molina told him, “lately.”

  “Now, that’s odd,” Barnes spat, “for I did hear about a man named Gore driving through this country.”

  Molina took out the makings and began to build a smoke. Was everybody in Texas thinking about that gold? “Tom Gore,” he said, “made his drive away east of here. He was driving for Wichita, then changed his mind and went to Dodge.”

  Barnes nodded. “Now, that sounds right.
It surely does. Maybe it was when he was coming back that Gore went through here, and a passel of hands with him.” He turned his head on his thin, buzzardlike neck. “Might you be one of them?”

  “I worked for Tom on the home ranch,” Molina said. “He was a friend of mine.”

  Ruth had gotten down from the wagon and walked nearer, and as they talked, she listened, looking from time to time at Molina, but trying to keep out of Barnes’s line of sight. There was more here, Molina decided, than was apparent at first glance. One thing was obvious: here was another man on the trail of the Gore money.

  It seemed impossible for anything to be hidden here, of all places. And he had looked around and examined the ground pretty thoroughly on the basis of earlier familiarity. However, Tom Gore had known this place, and so had Pike. Gore had planned to have Pike locate the gold and there might have been something each knew that was unknown to anyone else.

  Obviously, the three outlaws did not know the exact location or they would have made a move toward it … or were they worried by Molina and Hale?

  They had murdered once for this gold, and they would not hesitate again.

  Hale stood guard and Molina slept while the camp quieted down, and in the early hours before dawn, he awakened Molina.

  “All quiet … But I don’t believe those boys will wait much longer.”

  Molina slid out of his bed roll and pulled on his boots. The night was cold, the coals of the fire glowed red with a few thin tendrils of flame licking the length of sticks just placed in the fire. Across the way the other fire was only a faint glow, and the wagon was silent. Molina could see Barnes bedded down beneath the wagon.

  Moving back from the fire he saw Hale turn in and then he moved back still farther until only his boots showed in the edge of light. Beyond that his figure was shrouded by the dead black of the shadow under a huge cottonwood. Carefully, he slid out of his boots and donned the moccasins he always carried folded in a pocket. Leaving the boots where they could be seen, the upper part of them in the shadow, he moved back away from the fire, and from among the trees he studied the camp with infinite care.