Louis L'Amour (11 page)

“So I must descend to his level?”

“If you want to be civilized, ma’am, you’re going to have to fight to protect it, or all the civilized will be dead, and we will be back in the darkness of savagery.”

“You sound like a philosopher, Mr. Boone.”

“No, ma’am, but out there in the night, sometimes with a campfire, a man has time to think. He can’t get his thoughts from books. He has to think things out for himself, and a man likes to understand what life he’s living and why he must do some things.

“I’m not sure all my thoughts are right. Some of them need a lot more thinking, but you don’t try to reason with a man who is trying to kill you, or else you will be dead, and violence will have won another victory over peace.

“You take that man who shot your husband, ma’am. He did it because he saw your husband as a threat to him, and when he tries to kill you, it will be for the same reason.

“Are you goin’ to let him do it?”

Chapter 12

W
HAT CAN I do?” She gestured. “I have my work to do, and I must move around a good bit. I have to be outside part of the time.”

“First thing, ma’am, this Flandrau feller who you think wants you dead wouldn’t want it tied to him. He’ll try to send somebody to do the job who isn’t close to him but somebody who knows his business.

“That makes it unlikely that he will take a shot at you when the stage is in with folks milling about. Remember, I said it is unlikely, but he
might
. If he’s smart, as I believe, he will try to catch you alone in the yard where there’s nobody around to see where the shot came from or to start hunting him.

“He would like to slip in here, kill you, and get away clean. If he handles it right, that is just what he will do.”

“You don’t give me much of a chance.”

“No, ma’am, not unless you use your head. Don’t walk across the yard alone in broad daylight. Don’t establish any habits. That’s what he will be looking for. If you go to the stables at a certain hour each morning, he’ll be waiting.”

She watched him as he walked away. Who
was
he? What was he? He was said to be good with a gun, and there was a whisper around that he was a very dangerous man. To her, he seemed merely a quiet, still-faced man who rarely smiled but who went about his business with a cool assurance.

What he felt about her or thought of her, she had no idea, yet he had never once suggested this was not her kind of work or that she should get out of this business, as many others had.

She preferred it that way, yet it nettled her a little, also. Thinking of it, she laughed at herself for being so feminine. He was, after all, a very attractive man.

Her eyes strayed toward the tree, and from the corners of her eyes she studied it. Slowly, then, her eyes swept the yard. Of course, that might not be the position the gunman would take up, but if he did, what places in the yard were beyond his vision?

She could go from here around the corral to the back of the barn, or she could go from her house to the blacksmith shop without exposing herself to what might be his firing position.

Her father had served in the Blackhawk War, and there were times when he and her husband would talk for hours about tactics, firing positions, and the ranges of various weapons. She wished she had paid more attention, but who would have guessed she would find herself in such a position as she now held?

I
N THE BACK room on Larimer Street in Denver, Jason Flandrau sat tipped back in a chair, his boots on the table.

“She’s there,” he said. “You boys saw the wrong woman.”

“She was Irish as Paddy’s Pig, the one we saw,” Turkey Joe Longman said.

“She doesn’t count. It’s the other one we want. If she’s still around when I run for office, she will talk even if she doesn’t say something before that.”

“Does she know your name?”

“I’ve no idea, but she’s seen me; she saw me right out in the open. I tried to get her then, but she slipped away, God knows how.” He swore softly. “Who would ever think she’d show up out here? Of all places?”

“It ain’t like back East,” Longman said. “You can shoot a man, and nobody blinks. But you even bump into a woman on the street, and you might get hung. I don’t like it, Colonel. I don’t like it at all.”

“Neither do I. Nor do I want to see you hang, which will surely happen if they find out who you are. Or who I am.” He took his boots from the table and turned in his chair. “Indians, that’s the answer. Run off the horses and kill her while it’s being done. Round up a few bad Indians and let them have the horses. In the process, she gets killed, and they are blamed.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Irritated, Flandrau turned on him. “Have you got a better plan? You said yourself you’re not getting much of a chance at a shot out there.”

“Let me try it a few more days.”

“All right. You’ve always done what you set out to do. But be careful. Be very, very careful. And tell nobody, even our own boys, what you’re doing.”

When Longman was gone, he ordered a glass of wine and remained at the table. Returning to Laporte was out of the question when there was a possibility she might see him. Did she realize it was he who killed her husband?

The trouble lay with Preston Collier. He needed Collier’s support if he planned on running for office, and to reach Collier’s place he almost had to go through Laporte and then past Cherokee to Collier’s ranch. He could circle around, of course.

If Longman could get rid of Mrs. Breydon, then he would get rid of Longman. He wanted nobody alive who could point a finger at him.

He got to his feet and flicked some dust from his boots with the end of his handkerchief. Carefully, he straightened his cravat. Anyway, it was time he cut himself free from all of the old crowd. His future was assured, and he was moving in a different direction now and needed them no longer. He went out the back door, closing it carefully behind him.

L
ONGMAN AVOIDED THE trail to Cherokee, staying in the back country away from the traveled road. He held to the rolling hills and the grasslands, a route he had used before. Jason was right, of course. Her testimony could get them hung. Neither the North nor the South had any use for guerrillas. Nonetheless, he was tired of doing Jason’s dirty work. It wasn’t as if he had never killed a woman, for he had killed a dozen or more in raids, but this was different. He had been one of many then, robbing, killing, and raping without discrimination. Now he was alone, going out to shoot a woman with the necessity of escaping afterward and no friends to fight off his pursuers.

One last time, and he had the spot picked. Move in, await his chance, one clean shot, and a fast getaway. He had even planned that, with a spare horse hidden in a brush corral in the woods.

The sorrel horse he left in the brush corral was a fine animal, and he was fast. He was also a horse Turkey Joe had never been seen riding. A true beauty, the sorrel was, a horse to take the eye of any man who loved or wanted a fast horse.

Turkey Joe rode a gray horse to the line of trees and tied the horse with a slip knot to some brush right behind him. He slid his rifle from the boot and edged up to the tree where he had found a convenient rest for his rifle over the stub of a broken branch. Then he settled down to wait. Turkey Joe Longman had planned carefully and well. The trouble was that, like many another criminal, he had not considered the imponderables, the accidental, the unexpected.

M
ARY BREYDON CAME to the door with her Henry rifle and placed it beside the door as she had been doing for the past three days. A dozen times in those three days, she had taken up the rifle and aimed it through the brush and trees at the tree Boone had indicated. Her chances of shooting through all that brush without the bullet being deflected were slight, but at least she could, if still alive, strike back.

She had been thinking a good deal about Temple Boone’s comments and had decided he was probably right. If civilization was to endure, those who believed in it must be prepared to strike back at the dark forces that would destroy it. Aside from that, she was Peg’s mother, and Peg’s mother had to live to ensure Peg of the education and the chance she should have. For that, she was willing to fight. She poured a cup of hot coffee.

The stage would be coming soon. She took her apron from the back of a chair and walked to the door, tying it. She had just stepped into the door when, on the hill beyond the trees, Turkey Joe Longman leveled his rifle. In the moment Turkey Joe took aim, the first of the imponderables, the accidental, happened.

Peg turned quickly to speak to her mother and knocked over a cup of coffee. It burned her hand, and she screamed, “
Mama
!”

Mary Breydon turned sharply, and the bullet aimed for her heart burned the outside of her left shoulder.

Almost without thinking, she whipped up the Henry and fired at the target for which she had so often aimed. The bullet missed Turkey Joe but it hit the gray horse. Wheeling about, Turkey Joe hit the saddle, whipping the slip knot free as he passed it, and he was off with a jump.

Temple Boone, throwing one quick glance toward the door, seeing Mary on her feet and Matty beside her, hit the saddle running, Ridge Fenton only a jump behind him on another horse.

At the tree, there was blood on the leaves where the horse had been tied, and the two were off on the trail.

Swearing, Turkey Joe spurred the wounded horse.

Within a few miles, the horse began to labor, and Turkey Joe urged it on. His pursuit was behind him but still far enough away, and he had a fresh horse, a fast horse, waiting.

The second of the imponderables, the unexpected, had happened only minutes before. Bear Walker, a Comanche brave, had come upon the brush corral and the sorrel, and Bear Walker had an eye for horse flesh and a picture of himself riding into the village on such a horse. Bear Walker was no laggard but a man of instant decision.

Dust still hung in the air when Turkey Joe, stripping the gear from the bloody gray, stopped, saddle in hand, staring at the open gate in his corral. Behind him, he heard the pound of hoofs. He dropped the saddle and went for his gun.

The gun came up fast, but not fast enough. The last thing he saw was Temple Boone, gun in hand.

“Damn you, Boone! I—!”

“He’s had it comin’ for a long time,” Ridge Fenton said.

V
ARY THE HOURS at which you do things. Avoid patterns.” He put down his cup and reached for the coffeepot. “Have you talked to Ridge Fenton about this?”

“No.”

“You should. Get him in here, soften him up with a piece of pie or a couple of doughnuts because he’s a crusty old codger, as you probably know.

“Tell him what’s happening. Lay it on the line to him because Ridge makes a great fuss about bein’ gun-shy. He’ll tell you he wants no part of any fight. He wants no shooting around where he is. He’s a peaceful man. He will tell you that, but don’t you believe him because that old man has ridden with Indian war parties, he’s had hand-to-hand fights with Indians, he’s guided army patrols, and he’s been fightin’ since he was knee-high. Believe me, and I’ve been around the mountain a few times, I’d rather tackle three cougars in your tack room than that old man when he’s riled.”

He paused, drawing his cup near. “How about Wat?”

“He knows, but he’s just a small boy.”

“And a mighty tricky one. Don’t you forget that he survived on his own for some little time. He listens a lot, misses mighty little, and he can track better than most grown men.”

He finished his coffee and pulled back from the table. “I’ll be around time to time. If you need me, Wat will know where I am.”

Chapter 13

J
ASON FLANDRAU WAS at supper in the hotel dining room when he overheard the conversation.

“Can’t figure it out,” a man was saying. “Who would want to shoot a woman? If it had been Scant Luther, I’d not be surprised, but this was a man named Longman. Shot at her from ambush.”

“He ought to be hung!”

“Too late,” the first speaker commented. “Temple Boone caught up with him, and Longman was a little slow.”

“What was Longman’s connection?”

“That’s just it. There is no connection of which anybody knows. It seems Longman was by the station at Cherokee just a few days ago, but he didn’t see Mrs. Breydon—”

“Breydon? Wasn’t that the name of that former army officer who was shot over at Julesburg a few months ago?”

Jason Flandrau’s back was to them, but he felt a sudden chill. It was getting close, too close. Somebody would be apt to remember who had done that shooting and wonder if there was any connection. For a moment, he sat very still, carefully reviewing his past meetings with Longman.

Had they been seen together? He had tried to be careful, but there had seemed no reason to be too careful until now.

The worst of it was he would have to move with extreme care. If people were already wondering and anything else happened, they would start not only asking questions but looking for the answers.

Should he move out now? Leave Colorado at once, for Montana, perhaps? Or California? That was stupid. He had established himself here. They were talking of him for governor, perhaps for senator. He had been fortunate here and had fallen in with the right group at the right time. Such a coincidence might not happen again. Could he let one woman stand between him and the wealth that could be his by discreetly using his power as governor? And all the honor and position that would be his?

But what to do? His strong right hand was gone. At least he had not talked. Thoughtfully, he began considering the men who were left to him, the men from the old outfit. Most of them were simply brutes, tough, lawless men who were loyal enough as long as they had money to gamble and buy whiskey. They knew him, but none of them were in his confidence.

What about that young fellow, that friend of Turkey Joe’s? He was, Longman had said, very good with a gun, and he was shrewd.