Louis L'Amour (18 page)

“Mum? That man Jordy Neff? He’s comin’ down the road, and he’s ridin’ with two others.”

Temple Boone turned sharply to look up the road. Then he reached back and slipped the loop from the hammer of his six-shooter.

“I see him.” Mary Breydon’s expression changed. “And he’s riding my horse!”

Chapter 20

T
EMPLE BOONE WATCHED Jordy Neff dismount. His features were tight and hard. “Mrs. Breydon,” even the tone of his voice had changed, “are you ready for trouble?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Shooting trouble,” he replied.

“The stage is coming in,” she said. “Nothing can happen until it is gone.”

“Tell that to Neff,” he said. “His kind doesn’t wait, and that’s Williams and Mody Mercer with him.” He turned to look at her. “This is killing trouble. Where’s Peg?”

“She’s across the road, in our house. When the stage comes in, she will come over to help.”

“She mustn’t. She’s got to stay there.” As Mary started to move, he put up a hand. “No! Stay here! She will have to take her chances.”

“What do you mean? Why should there be trouble?”

“Flandrau’s been wanting to be rid of you. Jordy is his pet killer, and as for Mercer, he’ll stop at nothing, just nothing at all.”

“But the stage—!”

Boone turned to Matty. “Serve them, serve the stage people, too.”

Mary Breydon stood staring out of the window. “That horse is mine!” Suddenly she was angry. “If they want trouble, they can have it!”

“Mary! Mrs. Breydon, think what you’re doing. The men you’re lookin’ at are utterly vicious. You’ve never seen their like!”

“Oh, yes, I have! They raided Harlequin Oaks! They killed some of our people! They ran off our stock!”

He stared at her. Didn’t she realize there were three of them, and it was he alone against them?

Where was Ridge Fenton? Where the hell was Ridge?

He could take—maybe he could take Neff, but what about the others?

“Mrs. Breydon.” He spoke softly. “For God’s sake, don’t say anything about that horse! Not now!”

“I’ll do no such—!”

“Here comes the stage,” Matty said. She wiped her hands on her apron, smoothed down her dress. “Ma’am? The stage is here.”

It came around the corner at a spanking trot, swung around the half circle, and pulled up at the station. Jordy Neff and his men were just outside the door. They turned to look.

“Matty?” Boone whispered. “Where’s the shotgun?”

She gestured toward the bedroom door. “Right inside my door, left-hand side.”

He backed up toward the door, his cup of coffee in his left hand. Jordy first…he would be the quickest one, then Mercer and Williams—

He was good with a gun, and he knew he was good, but
three
of them?

And a perfect chance for Mary Breydon to be killed, accidentally. An innocent bystander.

They swung open the door and came in, just ahead of the passengers. Neff stared across the table at Boone. “Well, what d’you know? Temple Boone! Look what we got here, fellas, Temple Boone!”

He stared at Boone, smiling a little. “You killed Longman, didn’t you? He was a friend of mine.”

“He was a thief. He had it coming.”

Neff laughed. “Of course, he did! He killed his share, Lord knows! Men, women, maybe children, I don’t know, but I set store by him. We rode together.”

The passengers were trooping in. There were nine of them, at least four of them with the mark of the West on them. Two were strong-looking men wearing gun belts. Two others were business types, but both were armed. All four were tanned and rugged.

Matty moved quickly, quietly, serving them the steaks she had prepared. They were elk meat and very good.

One of the newcomers glanced from Neff to Boone, then apparently nudged his companion. The man edged over, out of the line of fire.

Neff forked a piece of the steak into his mouth, and Mary Breydon said, “Mr. Neff, you are riding a stolen horse!”

His mouth was full; he was chewing, and he had another piece of meat on his fork, halfway to his mouth. Caught in midmovement, he stared; an ugly glint came into his eyes and passed.

He put down his fork slowly, chewed and swallowed. “Ma’am, you bein’ a woman—”

“Mr. Neff, I said you are riding a stolen horse. The horse belongs to me. He was stolen in a guerrilla raid on my plantation at Harlequin Oaks.”

Neff’s face was a shade more pale. He glanced briefly at the men across from him. “There’s a lot of horses, ma’am. It’s easy to make a mistake, y’ know. I—”

“This is no mistake, Mr. Neff. That horse was stolen, and he belongs to me.” She reached into her pocket. “I had been planning to put these papers in the hands of the sheriff, but as long as you have brought the horse here, there may be no need of that.

“These papers,” she added, “are the pedigree papers for the horse you have been riding. The horse belongs to me!”

Jordy Neff’s face slowly began to flush. All eyes were on him. Who did this woman think she was, anyway? Callin’ him like this in front of everybody? “You’re makin’ a mistake, lady,” he said. “That there horse is mine.”

“Sir?” She spoke to one of the men at the table. “I dislike to disturb your lunch, but would you step out there and look under that horse’s mane? Look high up and you will find a C branded there.”

“My father’s name and mine before I was married was Claybourne. That horse was raised on Harlequin Oaks. She was a pet of mine.”

“Ma’am? Are you accusin’ me?”

“I am not. I am simply saying you are riding a horse that was stolen from me and for which I have the papers. Do you have a bill of sale, Mr. Neff?”

His face flushed a deeper red. He was fairly trapped and had no idea what to do. If he drew a gun here, somebody was going to get killed, and he had a feeling that maybe these strangers might take a hand.

Mody and Williams were there, but—

Williams slowly, carefully pushed back his corner of the bench and stood up. “I am going to pay you, ma’am. Is it two bits?”

He spoke carefully to be sure they heard him before he started to put his hand in his pocket. He took out some coins, placed the proper coin on the table, and took a slow step back, then walked quietly toward the door, followed by Mercer, who also paid.

The man came in from outside. “The C is there, ma’am. Looks to me like the horse is yours.”

“I have the papers here,” she said, “and the description of the horse.”

Horse stealing was a hanging offense. There was a stage driver and a hostler out there; there were several men in here—he could almost feel the rope.

“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know the horse was stole. Can I ride him back to town?”

“No, you cannot. The horse will remain here. If you will remove your saddle and bridle, please? You may ride the stage into town.” She paused. “If you have the fare.”

Neff’s eyes were ugly. “If you were a man—!”

“I’m a man,” Boone suggested mildly.

“Not in here!” Matty had the shotgun. “Outside with you all!
Now!
”

They moved outside, and some of the passengers began to board the stage.

Mercer and Williams stood to one side, about ten feet apart, facing the stage station.

Neff walked toward the barn, then turned sharply around, waiting.

Boone was at the door, but before he could stop her, Mary was past him. “Gentlemen? Will you board, please?

“Wilbur? When the passengers are aboard, will you take the stage out, please? At once?” She turned. “Mr. Neff? Unless you wish to walk, I’d suggest you get your gear and get aboard.”

“I got business here,” he said, watching the door.

Temple Boone spoke quietly from within the door. “Ma’am? Don’t you
see
? It’s you they want to kill.”

For an instant, she stood still. Of course, how could she have been such a fool? Yet how could she now get inside? If she made such a move, would they not kill her at once? The stage started to move.

“Take them out, Wilbur!” she said. “Now!”

The stage rolled; dust arose and settled. They could hear it rattling off down the road, the sound slowly receding.

She stood alone in the bare trail before the stage station, and there were three men whose intention it was that she die.

She stood very still, head held high, trying to think of a way out. What should she do now?

Walk to the door? Walk toward them? Softly, the voice from the doorway said, “When I step out, you hit the dirt. Hit it hard, ma’am. It will be your only chance!”

Matty moved to a window. “Mr. Boone, I have the shotgun. I will take Mr. Williams.”

Boone waited, running his tongue over his lips. From where he stood, he could not see Jordy Neff, but he knew where he stood. The advantage was Neff’s. The instant Boone’s body showed, Neff would fire.

All right,
he told himself.
You may have to take one, but kill him! Don’t leave these women alone with him. Whatever happens, kill him!

Another voice suddenly came from the barn. “All right, Matty, you take Williams. I got Mercer. I got him right in the sights o’ this ol’ buffler gun!”

At that moment, another voice, a strange voice, broke in. “We three. We kill.”

Three rifle barrels appeared from the corral bars.

Jordy Neff, poised to go for his gun, held his hand. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Slowly, very carefully, he lowered his hand. “Get your horse, Mercer,” he said after a moment. “You’ve got the biggest horse. I’ll have to double up with you.”

Mercer crossed the yard, untied both horses, and led them out into the road. Williams mounted up, his features showing the shock.

Mercer hesitated, then mounted, and then Jordy Neff swung up behind him. The horse sidestepped at the unusual load, obviously unhappy with it, but they started off.

Neff turned. “I’ll be around, Boone! You can expect me!”

When they were gone, Mary walked into the house and sat down. “Thank you, Mr. Boone. Thank you, very much!”

Matty went to the door, shading her eyes. “Who were the others?” she demanded. “Who—?”

Three Indians rode out from behind the corral, drawing up at the door.

“You? Oh, thank you!”

Their faces were solemn. “Not for you,” one said. “For the papooses!”

And they rode away, laughing.

Chapter 21

I
D’CLARE, WOMAN,” Ridge Fenton said, “livin’ around you is like livin’ next to a battleground. I’m an old man, ma’am. I ain’t up to all this excitement. I figured I was in for a quiet, peaceful time when I come here. I aimed to settle down, calm my nerves, kind of ease into old age, sort of.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenton. When I heard your voice, I knew one man would be taken out of the fight.”

“Mebbe. I don’t miss very often. Not at that range and with a buffalo gun. I’d have cut him loose from his pockets, b’lieve me.”

“It isn’t over,” Boone said. “I think I should ride into town. It’s me an’ Jordy Neff now.”

“Please…leave him alone.”

Temple Boone turned toward Mary. “I do not have much choice, ma’am. This is my country. I live here. I shall always live here. I do not want trouble, but there are some kinds of trouble that cannot be avoided.

“From now on, wherever I go, there is a chance he will be there, waiting. It is better to get it over with, once and for all.”

“Makes sense, ma’am. Of course,’twas me, now, I’d set up on a ridge somewhere and wait for him. He opened the ball, ma’am. He stated it clear that he meant to kill Boone, so as far as Boone is concerned, it’s open season on Neff. He laid it down, implied he’d shoot on sight, and when you do that, all the rules are off. You shoot ’em whenever an’ however you can. On’y Boone won’t do that. He’ll go down there to face him fair an’ square. That’s a good way to get hisself kilt.”

Stages came, and stages left. It was an endless round of meals, stages, passengers of all sorts and kinds. Actors, prospectors, gamblers, miners, hunters, newspapermen, homemakers and shady ladies, whiskey peddlers and weapons’ salesmen, Indian agents, drummers, men and women from all over the world, of every sort and nationality.

The work fell into patterns that made it easier, though never easy. In a time and place when women were scarce, they averaged a proposal every three days, the proposals coming from old men and young men, from established mining, ranching, or business men, from drifting cowhands, prospectors, and every variety of male creature afloat.

“An’ some of them mean it,” Matty said, “but there be some who are only talkin’ an’ would be frightened to their death if you said ‘yes’ to them! But ’tis a lonely time for folks out here and no pleasure in returnin’ to an empty house to hear naught but the echo of your own voice!

“Here, with us,’tis different, for we’re a family-like, and we’ve each other to share with. A family is a place where a body can share the no-account things, can talk of the little matters important only to ourselves, where we can laugh and cry and tell of the day-by-day happenings and then forget them.” Matty took off her apron. “So now I’ll be settin’ by with a warm cup for myself and to chat a bit.”

Mary Breydon went outside, standing for a moment in the warm sunlight. Suddenly, all this was very familiar, very real.

Was it here, then, that she would make her home? Was Virginia no longer to be a part of her life? Here she was doing something important. She was a part of the westward movement. In her own small way, she was helping to build America, helping to make so many dreams come true.

Before the war, she knew of this only as a vague place called the West. It was where people went and where so few returned. The East she knew was a place of established families, businesses that had been in operation for many years, children whose great-grandparents had been young together, and it had been a good world in so many ways, a safe world.

That was not true here. Everything was new; everything was building. It was rough, hard, and unpolished. The law was around but never in the way. Men were expected to handle their own difficulties, and courage was the most respected virtue, with integrity a close second. Many a man whom you might call a thief with impunity would shoot you if you called him a liar or a coward.