The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (60 page)

He got his boots on, struggled into his pants, and hastened to the door. Then he stopped abruptly.
The wagon was gone!

For a minute he stared, unmindful of the approaching riders, thinking only of the missing wagon. Then he thought of Chiv Pontious. If the gambler had—!

He turned for the stairs to the Ranger's room. He scrambled, panting up the stairs, clutching his unbelted pants with one hand. The Ranger's door stood open and on the rumpled bed was a note.

Sorry to leave like this. I got my money.

Got his money? But?…! Turning, Rope Nose stumbled down the steps and into the saloon. The room was dark and still, and the safe was closed. Hurriedly, he spun the dial and opened the safe. Where the money had been placed was another note.

You should be more careful. I read the combination when you opened the safe for me. I've taken my money and you had better keep your boys home.

The door rattled, and he went to it. Opening it, he found himself pushed aside by Pink Lucas. The big outlaw swaggered to the bar and picked up the bottle left there by Sutton. Pouring a drink, he turned on George. “All right, where is it?”

“Where's what?”

Chiv Pontious had come into the room behind Lucas. He smiled now. “I told you he was scared, Pink. The money's in the safe.”

“No, it ain't.” George shoved the note at them. “Sutton took it and he's gone, the wagon with him.”

“Ten thousand!” Chiv said aloud. “Think of it, Pink! Ten thousand dollars, for the taking!”

Pink slammed the glass down on the bar. “Get fresh horses!” he yelled. “Get 'em fast! We'll have that money! He can't go far with a wagon!”

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Rope Nose George examined Lucas with heavy-lidded, crafty eyes. “You're right, Pink. They're headed up toward the hills. Let's go get 'em.”

“Not you, fat man,” Pink said as a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of the remounts. “You're stayin' here, an' keepin' your mouth shut. Come on, men!”

         

Six miles to the west, Johnny Sutton was leading the wagon into the rough country beyond Tornillo Creek. It was a country cut by many draws that in wet weather ran bank full with roaring water, and it was sprinkling even now. That is, it was sprinkling where Sutton rode. Over the mountains around Lost Mine Peak, heavy thunderheads were losing their weight of water upon the steep slopes of the mountains. Johnny Sutton knew the gamble he was taking and the risk he was running, but to get where he wanted to go he must cross at least two more of the deep draws that cut into the slope leading down into the bottom of Tornillo Flat. There was high ground there where they would be safe, and if his idea worked, it would not only prove safe for him and the Knights, but a trap for any who followed them.

The rain was increasing. Lightning flashed continually. Wheeling his horse, he rode back. “Whoop it up, Pa!” he yelled above the storm. “We've got two more draws to cross!”

Pale-faced, the older man stared at him. “We'll never make it! Look at the rain in those mountains!”

“We've got to!” Sutton replied. “Let's go!”

The horses strained into the harness and gathered speed. The wagon was not heavily loaded, and back along the way they had already thrown out several pieces of furniture. Each one had meant a battle with Stormy, but each time it was a battle Sutton won.

Ahead of them, a deep gash broke the face of the plain, and without hesitation he rode into it. A thin stream trickled along the bottom, but that was merely the result of local rain. What was coming was back up there in those rock-sided mountains, where nothing stopped the weight of rushing water. Whooping and yelling they raced across the draw and the horses lunged up the opposite side. Far off they heard a low roar. Stormy looked quickly at Sutton. “Can't we stop here?” she pleaded.

“Not unless you feel you can hold off a dozen men!” he replied. “Get rollin', old man!”

The team lunged into their collars and the four horses started the wagon moving. It was no more than a half mile to the next draw but the race was on in earnest. Johnny Sutton rode alongside the horses, whooping it up and slapping them with his rope.

Before them loomed the other draw, all of sixty yards across and the trail showing dimly up the far side. Now the roar filled their ears, but whipping up the horses, Sutton slapped his dun and lunged on ahead. Down the bank he went at a dead run with the wagon thundering behind him. The draw was straight away to the west for all of two hundred yards, and as they hit bottom they saw the water.

It was a rolling gray-black wall at least ten feet high! It was rolling down upon them with what seemed to be the speed of an express train. Sutton whipped the horses and, racing beside them, rushed for the trail. The frightened horses hit the trail up the bank and the wagon bounded like a chip as it struck a stone. Then they were up, and almost in the same instant the water swept by, thundering behind them.

“All right!” Sutton yelled. “Pull up an' give 'em a blow!”

Knight drew up on the lines and the horses quartered around. The draw was running bank full behind them. Then, standing in his stirrups, Sutton pointed.

Behind them, trapped between the two draws, was a small band of horsemen! Rain lashing his face, he laughed grimly. “Got 'em!” he said. “I figured they were close behind!” He rode in close to the wagon and leaned over. “Keep goin', but you can take it easy now. Head for the ranch at Paint Gap. You'll be safe there.”

Stormy stood up. “What about you?” she demanded.

“I'm waiting here. I want to watch those hombres. There's one in particular I want to talk to!” He swung the dun and rode away through the rain. Stormy stared after him, then sat down abruptly, her eyes somber.

Johnny Sutton liked the feel of the rain. He was wearing his slicker, but otherwise was thoroughly wet and enjoying it. He rode back toward the draw. The riders had turned and were headed upstream. He grinned, having foreseen that possibility and knowing well what awaited them. As a boy of sixteen he had been punching cattle in this area and had been trapped in the same way. He turned his own horse and followed them. Suddenly, they drew up. The place where they had stopped had been made an island by the two draws running bank full. By the look of the rain they would have no choice but to sit there and wait until the two draws went down, which would be four or five hours by the way the rain was continuing.

They had stopped at the foot of a steep red and grassless slope that led up the sides of a low mesa. The top of that mesa, the last twenty feet, was sheer rock extending from one draw to the other. A horse might scramble up that slope, but nothing could surmount that cliff at the top. Johnny Sutton sat on his horse and chuckled.

From where they sat they could see him plainly and he waved to them. One of the men threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired a shot, but the distance was far too great for it to be effective. Sutton rode forward, not certain whether he would find what he sought or not, but when he came to the bridge of stone, he grinned with satisfaction.

He was now well beyond the mesa that blocked the westward ride of the outlaws, and this stone ledge under which the water ran was in fact a part of that same mesa. Here the water had undermined the solid rock of the ledge and left a natural bridge some fifty feet wide and at least twenty yards along, ample to bridge the draw at that point. Johnny rode across the stone bridge and walked his horse through the rain to the top of the mesa. On this northern side it broke sharply off and was easy of access in several places, as it was from the west, although inaccessible for a rider from either the south or east.

When within some forty yards of the rim below which the horsemen were trapped, Johnny Sutton swung down and drew his rifle from its scabbard, keeping the weapon back under his slicker. He walked up behind some boulders and looked down on the riders standing below. He chuckled, then fired a shot into the ground at their horses' feet. Several animals started to buck. All heads swung around and guns came up.

“Drop 'em, Pink!” he called out. “All of you! I've got you under my gun and I can pick you off like ducks in a barrel! You,” Sutton motioned to one of the men, “collect all the guns, an' I mean
all
!”

They sat dead still, staring up at him. Before and behind were roaring rivers, impassable for many hours. East, the ground fell away into a vast flat covered with a stand of water, much of it now treacherous with quicksand. On foot they might climb the stone wall before them; otherwise, there was no escape. Nor was there escape from the deadly rifle that covered them. They were caught in the open and helpless.

“No waiting!” Sutton ordered. “Collect the guns!”

Reluctantly, the outlaw went from man to man, gathering the weapons. Sutton had brought his rope, and now he lowered the end down the wall. “Tie 'em on!” he commanded.

When this was done he hauled the weapons up to him, worked with them a few minutes, and then went back to the rim. “All right, leave your horses and climb up here, one by one!”

“Leave our horses?” Lucas protested. “What becomes of them? How do we travel?”

“On foot.”

A burst of profanity answered him, and one man shouted a refusal. Wheeling his horse he dropped low in the saddle and jumped the horse away toward the flat. Yet the horse had taken not even two full jumps when Sutton fired. The man swung loose in the saddle and dropped. Then he struggled to his feet, clutching his bloody shoulder and swearing.

“One at a time!” Sutton repeated. “Start climbin'!”

One by one they climbed up, and one by one he tied their hands behind them, patting them down for knives and other weapons. The last man to come up was Pink Lucas, his red face redder still, his eyes ugly. “I'll kill you for this!” he told Sutton.

Shrugging, Johnny Sutton started them walking northwest through the steady fall of the rain. An hour later he paused and allowed them fifteen minutes' rest. By that time the rain had slowed to a mere drizzle and gave signs of clearing. Then he started them again. Four hours later, wet, bedraggled, and weary, they stumbled into the Paint Gap Ranch yard, and were met by an astonished gathering of cowhands headed by their boss, Charlie Warner, and by Pa and Stormy Knight.

“Well, I'll be forever damned!” Warner stared. “Pink Lucas an' his crowd! How in the thunder did you ever get this bunch?”

Johnny Sutton shrugged wearily. “They got tired of livin' lives of wickedness and decided they would surrender. Isn't that right, Pink?”

Pink Lucas answered with a burst of profanity. Chiv Pontious only stared at Sutton, his eyes evil with murderous desire for a weapon.

Johnny Sutton looked at Stormy, and met her eyes. “You'd better eat something,” she said. “You're cold and wet.”

“That ain't all,” Pink Lucas threatened. “He'll stay cold an' wet.”

Johnny Sutton herded the men into the barn and left a cowhand to watch them. There had been no sign of Red, and secretly he was pleased. He had liked the way Red played Knight's hand the night before. At least, he liked the way he had played it after he, Sutton, moved in.

Sutton walked to the house and dropped the saddlebags against the wall. “I needed Lucas,” he said, looking around at Warner. “He's been raiding across the border. I'd been trailing him when I ran into McClary. And that Pontious—he's wanted in New Orleans and Dallas, both places for murder.”

“The rain has stopped,” Stormy said suddenly. “Maybe we can go on tomorrow.”

The rain had stopped. Johnny listened for it, and heard no sound, but he heard another sound—the faint clop, clop of a walking horse. “Somebody coming in?” he asked, turning his head. “Maybe one of your boys?”

“Maybe. There's two still out.” Warner got up. “I'll see.”

The big rancher turned toward the door. Suddenly he started backing toward them, and Rope Nose George was standing in the door with a shotgun in his hand. He wore two six-shooters, but it was the double-barreled shotgun that stopped Johnny Sutton. “Don't be a fool, George,” he said, “you've been out of this.”

“I know that,” Rope Nose replied solemnly. “I was well out of it, an' then I got to thinkin'. Ten thousand dollars—why, that's a lot of money! It would keep a man a long time, if he used it right, especially down in one o' them South American countries. I just couldn't forget it, so I asked myself, ‘where will Sutton go?' And I guessed right.”

“George,” Sutton said patiently, “you get out of here now and I'll forget this ever happened.”

“That's fair. That's mighty fair, ain't it, Mr. Warner? Not many would give a man a break like that. Nevertheless, I ain't a-goin' to do it. Ten thousand—why, I never see that much money! I'll never have me another chance at it. I ain't nervy like that Pink Lucas is. I'm a yaller dog. I know that, Sutton. I always been afeard o' Pink an' his crowd, but why should I set in that durned bar when I could be settin' on a wide piazza down Guatemala way? I know a gent onct who come from Guatemala. He said …”

His voice trailed off and stopped. “You!” He pointed at Stormy. “I know that money you got is in that sack. Set it over here. Then get those saddlebags. Then I'll tie you all up an' drag it.”

He chuckled. “I figured you'd come here, so I never went across that Tornillo Flat. I rode straight west without comin' north at all, then dropped south an' crossed the crick afore she got a big head up.”

“Better think it over, Rope Nose,” Sutton suggested mildly. “We'll get you.”

“I done thought it over. I'm takin' two o' Warner's blacks. Nothin' around here will outrun them horses. I'll switch from one to the other an' ride hard to the border. It ain't far, an' once across I'll make the railroad an' head for Guatemala or somewheres. You'll never see hide nor hair o' me again.”