The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (64 page)

Of the more than a thousand cattle that drifted south, only six were lost. Despite the hurry and the darkness, Johnny had chosen his spot well and the powder had been well planted. Knowing the arroyo, he had known how many cracks were in the rocky edge, and how honeycombed it was with holes eroded by wind and water.

Gavin found his cattle scattered along the bottom of the arroyo, feeding on the rich grass that grew there where water often stood. He studied the blasted edge, glancing sharply at Johnny. “You knew something about powder, son,” he said. “Those shots were well placed.”

“My dad had a claim up in Oregon,” Johnny explained. “I helped him some, doin' assignment work.”

         

What Bart Gavin said to Lamson none of them knew, but for a few days his driving of Johnny ceased, although some sneering remarks about “pets” were made. And then gradually the old way resumed. It was Johnny Garrett who drew the rough jobs.

When there was to be a dance at Rock Springs Schoolhouse, where Johnny might have seen Mary Jane, he was sent to a line-camp at Eagle Rest.

It was a rugged, broken country, heavily timbered like his native Oregon, but riven by canyons and peaks, and cut here and there by lava flows and bordered on the east by the
malpais,
a forty-mile-wide stretch of lava where no horse could go and where a man's boots would be cut to ribbons in no time. Supposedly waterless, it was a treacherous area. There were stretches of flat, smooth lava, innocent in appearance, but actually that seemingly solid rock was merely the thin dome over a lava blister. Stepping on it, a man could plunge fifteen to fifty feet into a cavernous hole whose sides were slick and impossible to climb.

The few openings into this
malpais
were fenced, and the fences had to be kept up. At places the lava rode in a wall of basaltic blocks.

After the water holes were cleaned, salt scattered, and the fences checked, there was little to do. Johnny had a Colt and a Winchester, and he did a lot of shooting. He killed two mountain lions and a half-dozen wolves, skinning them and tanning the hides.

A week later Lasker rode in with two pack horses of supplies. Lasker was a tall, rawboned man who had punched cows for fifteen years.

He noticed the hides but made no comment. Hunkered down by the wall in the morning sun, he said, “Old man's worried. The tally fell off this year. He's losin' cows.”

“You seen Mary Jane?”

“She was at the dance with Smoke,” Lasker said, started to say something further, but stopped. Then he said, “ ‘Member that niece of Gavin's? She's livin' at the ranch. Her name is Betty.”

“Too high-toned for any cowpunch.”

“Can't tell about a woman,” Lasker said. “Some of the high-toned ones are thoroughbreds.”

         

Two days later Johnny found a dead cow. Wolves had torn it, but the cow had been shot in the head … the carcass not even a week old. Nobody had been around but Lasker and himself.

It was a Gavin cow. The only reason to shoot a cow was because she followed a rustled calf. Johnny was woods-bred and he spelled out the trail. A dozen head of young stuff had been taken through the timber into high country. He followed the scuffed trail through the pine needles, then lost it at the rim of a high canyon about the
malpais
.

For a week he scouted for sign, keeping up the pretense of only doing his work. Once, he cut the trail of a shod horse but lost it. Back at the cabin he began to sketch a crude map on brown wrapping paper, incorporating all he knew of the country, marking ridges, arroyos, and streams.

Three small streams disappeared in the direction of the lava beds, and nobody had ever followed those streams to see where they went. Both streams were shallow—no water backed up anywhere.

The first stream, he discovered, veered suddenly south and dropped from sight in a deep cavern under the lava. Two days later, mending fence, he checked the next stream. It ended in a swamp.

Lasker and Lamson rode in the following day. Lasker was friendly and noticed the fresh wolf hide. “Good huntin'?”

“Yeah, but not enough time.”

Smoke Lamson said nothing, but looked around carefully, and several times Johnny found Smoke watching him intently. It was not until they were about to leave that Lamson turned suddenly. “Seen anybody? Any strange riders?”

“Not a soul,” Johnny told him, and after they were gone he swore at himself for not mentioning the tracks. And the cow.

         

On the third day after that, he circled around to trace the source of the one unexplored stream. When he found it he rode into the water and had followed it downstream more than a mile when he heard voices. He could distinguish no words, but two men were talking. Through a veil of brush he saw them ride out of the trees. One was a fat, sloppy man in a dirty gray shirt. The other was lean and savage; his name was Hoyt, and Johnny had seen him in town. He was said to be dangerous. After they were gone, Johnny followed cautiously.

The stream's current increased. It was dropping fast, and suddenly he found himself about to enter a sheer-walled canyon. Climbing his dun out of the water, he followed along the rim for more than an hour as the canyon grew deeper, until the riders were mere dots.

In a clearing atop the mountain, Johnny took his bearings. To north, south, and east lay the
malpais,
spotted with trees and brush that concealed the razorlike edges of broken lava. Suppose there was, far out there where the stream flowed, a grassy valley where stolen cattle were held?

Back at the cabin he made his decision. It was time to talk to Bart Gavin. Switching horses he rode back, arriving long after dark. It would take another day to return, but he must see the rancher. “Nobody home,” the cook told him. “All gone to dance. Only Dan, he here.”

Lasker sat up when Johnny walked into the bunkhouse. “Hey, what's up?” The sleep was gone from his eyes.

“Needed tobacco,” Johnny lied glibly. He sat down. “A dance in town?”

Lasker relaxed. “So that's it? Kid, you'll get Lamson sore. You shouldn't oughta have come in.”

“Aw, why not? Climb into your duds an' we'll ride. I want to see Mary Jane.”

Riding into the outskirts, Lasker said, “That's a staked claim, kid. Better lay off.” Then he added, “He's a fighter.”

“So'm I. I grew up in lumber camps.”

As they tied their horses, Lasker said again, “Stay away from Mary Jane. She ain't for you, kid, an'—”

Johnny turned to face him. “What's wrong with her?”

Lasker started to speak, then shrugged. “Your funeral.”

Mary Jane squealed excitedly when she saw him. “Why, Johnny! I thought you were 'way up in the woods. What brought you back?”

“I had a reason.” He liked being mysterious. “You'll know soon enough.”

During the second dance she kept insisting. “What reason, Johnny? Why did you come back?”

“Secret,” he said. “You'll know before long.”

“Tell me. I won't tell anybody.”

“It's nothing.” He shrugged it off. “Only I found some rustlers.”

“You
found
them?” Her eyes were bright. “Why, John—!”

A big hand fell on his shoulder and he was spun into a hard fist crashing out of nowhere. He started to fall, but the second blow caught and knocked him sprawling.

Johnny's head was buzzing but he rolled over and got up swiftly. Smoke Lamson, his face hard and angry, swung wickedly, and Johnny clinched. Lamson hurled him to the floor, and before Johnny could scramble to his feet, Smoke rushed in and swung his leg for a kick. Johnny threw himself at Lamson's legs and they hit the floor in a heap. Coming up fast they walked into each other, punching with both hands. Johnny had the shorter reach but he got inside. He slammed a right to the ribs and Lamson took an involuntary step back. Then Johnny smashed a left to his face and, crouching, hooked a right to the body.

Around them the crowd was yelling and screaming. In the crowd was Mary Jane, her face excited, and nearby another face. That of the fat, sloppy man from the canyon!

Lamson rushed, but, over his momentary shock from the unexpected punch, Johnny was feeling good. Due to the brutally hard labor of the preceding fall and winter he was in fine shape. He was lithe as a panther and rugged as a Texas steer. He ducked suddenly and tackled Lamson. The big man fell hard and got up slowly. Johnny knocked him down. Lamson got up and Johnny threw him with a rolling hip-lock, and when the bigger man tried to get up again, Johnny knocked him down again.

His face bloody, Lamson stayed down. “Awright, kid. You whupped me.”

Johnny backed off and then walked away. Mary Jane was nowhere in sight. Disappointed, he looked around again. Across the room he saw Gavin and his niece. Betty was looking at him, and she was smiling. He started toward them when something nudged his ribs and a cool voice said “All right, kid, let's go outside an' talk.”

“But I—”

“Right now. An' don't get any fancy ideas. You wouldn't be the first man I killed.” The man with the gun in his back was Hoyt, the gun held so it could not be seen. They walked from the hall, and Betty looked after them, bewildered.

The fat rustler was waiting. He had Johnny's horse and theirs. Johnny moved toward his horse, remembering the pistol he had thrust into the saddlebag and the rifle in the scabbard. He reached for the pommel and a gun barrel came down over his skull. He started to fall, caught a second glancing blow, and dropped into a swirling darkness.

The lurching of the horse over the stones of the creek brought him to consciousness. The feel under his leg told him the rifle was gone. His ankles were tied, and his wrists. Was the pistol still in the saddlebag?

Pain racked his skull, and some time later he passed out again, coming out of it only when they took him off his horse and shoved him against the cabin wall. He was in a long grassy valley, ringed with
malpais,
but a valley of thousands of acres.

A third man came from the cabin. Johnny remembered him as cook for one of the roundup outfits, named Freck. “Grub's on,” Freck said, nodding briefly at Johnny.

They ate in silence. Hoyt watched Johnny without making a point of it. Freck and the fat man ate noisily. “You tell anybody about this place?” Hoyt demanded.

“Maybe,” Johnny said. “I might have.”

“Horse comin',” Hoyt said suddenly. “See who it is, Calkins.”

Johnny stiffened. Calkins … Mary Jane's father. Something died within him. He stared at his food, appetite gone. It had been Mary Jane, then, who told the rustlers he had found the cattle and the hideout. No wonder she had been curious. No wonder they had rushed him out before he could talk to Gavin.

Calkins stood in the door with a Winchester. Turning his head, he said, “It's the boss.”

A hard, familiar voice called, then footsteps. Johnny saw Dan Lasker step into the door. Lasker's smile was bleak. “Hello, Johnny. It ain't good to see you.”

“Never figured you for a rustler.”

“Man can't get rich at forty a month, Johnny.” He squatted on his heels against the wall. “We need another man.” Lasker lit a smoke. He seemed worried. “You're here, kid.”

It was a way out and there would be no other. And Lasker wanted him to take it. Actually speaking, there was no choice.

“Are you jokin'?” Johnny's voice was sarcastic. “Only thing I can't figure is why you didn't let me in on it from the start.” And he lied quietly: “I was figurin' to moonlight a few cows myself, only I couldn't find a way out of the country.”

Lasker was pleased. “Good boy, Johnny. As for a way out, we've got it.”

Hoyt shoved back from the table. “All I can say is, one wrong move outa this kid, an' I'll handle it my own way!”

“All right, Hoyt.” Lasker measured him coolly. “But be double-damned sure you're right.”

They had over four hundred stolen cattle and were ready for a drive. But they did not return Johnny's guns. Nor did he make as much as a move toward his saddlebags.

         

Calkins came in midway of the following afternoon. He was puffing and excited. “Rider comin'. An' it's that young niece of Gavin's!”

Hoyt got up swiftly. “Dan, I don't like it!”

Freck walked to the door and waited there, watching her come. “What difference does it make? She's here, an' she ain't goin' back. Nobody ever found this place, and it's not likely they have now.”

“What I want to know,” Hoyt said bitterly, “is how she found it.”

“Probably followed the kid.” Lasker was uneasy and showed it. “She's sweet on him.”

Betty Gavin was riding a black mare and she cantered up, smiling. “Hello, Johnny! Hello, Dan! Gee, I'm glad I found you! I thought I was lost.”

“How'd you happen to get here?” Lasker inquired. He was puzzled. She seemed entirely unaware that anything was wrong. But being an eastern girl, how could she know? On the other hand, how could an eastern girl have got here?

“Uncle Bart was at the old place on Pocketpoint, so I decided I'd ride over and surprise Johnny. I lost my way, and then I saw some horse tracks, so I followed them. When I got in that canyon I was scared, but there was no way to get out, so I kept coming.”

She looked around. “So this is what Eagle's Nest is like?”

Johnny Garrett was appalled. Calkins was frowning. Hoyt was frankly puzzled, as was Lasker. Yet Lasker looked relieved. He was not a murderer nor a man who would harm a woman, and this offered a way out. If Betty did not know the difference—

She came right up to Johnny, smiling. “My, but you're a mess!”
she said. “Straighten your handkerchief.” She reached up and pulled it around and he felt something sharp against the skin of his neck under the collar. It was a fold of paper. “Are you going to take me back to Pocketpoint?”