Read Online Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L’Amour
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tracks beside the blood spot were those of a man.
Brushing the snow from his saddle he remounted, turning the grulla mustang down the arroyo. The man, whoever he might be, was wounded and afoot, and the worst storm in years was piling the ravines with drifts.
The direction of the tracks proved the man a stranger. No Black Rock man would head in that direction if badly hurt. In that direction lay thirty miles of desert, and at the end of those miles only the ramshackle ruins of a ghost town.
Con started the mustang off at a rapid trot, his eyes searching the snow. Suddenly, he glimpsed the wounded man. Yet even as his eyes found the stumbling figure, a shot rang out.
Fargo hit the trail beside his horse, six-gun in hand. He could see nothing, only the blur of softly falling snow, hissing slightly. There was no sound, no movement. Then, just as he was about to avert his eyes, a clump of snow toppled from the lip of the arroyo.
He hesitated an instant, watching. Then he clambered up the steep wall of the arroyo and stood looking down at the tracks. Here a man had come to the edge, and here he had waited, kneeling in the snow. He was gone now, and within a quarter of a mile his tracks would be wiped out.
Con Fargo slid back into the arroyo and walked over to the fallen man. The fellow wore no heavy coat, and he was bleeding badly. Yet his heart was beating.
âThis moving may cash your chips, old-timer, but youâd die out here, anyway,â Con said.
He lifted the man and carried him back to his horse. It took some doing to get the wounded man into the saddle and mount behind him. The mustang didnât like the smell of blood and didnât like to carry double. When Fargo was in the saddle he let the grulla have his head, and the horse headed off through the storm, intent on the stable and an end to this foolishness.
An hour later, with the wounded man stripped of his clothes, Con went to work on him. He had the rough skill of the frontier fighter who was accustomed to working with wounds. The man had been shot twice. The first bullet had been high, just under his left collarbone, but it had spilled a lot of blood. The second shot had gone in right over the heart.
----
F OR THREE BITTER days he fought for the manâs life, three days of blizzard. Then the wounded man began to fail, and at daylight on the fourth morning, he died.
Getting out for a doctor would have been impossible. It was twelve miles to Black Rock, and with snow deep in the passes he dared not make the attempt. And the one doctor in town wouldnât cross the street to help Fargo or anyone like him.
Thoughtfully, Con studied the dead man. To somebody, somewhere, this man meant much. For whatever reason the man came west, it had been important enough to warrant his murder.
For this was no casual robbery and murder. Every effort had been made to prevent identification of the dead man. The labels had been torn from his store bought clothes. There were no letters, no papers, no wallet and no money. All had been removed.
âSomebody went to a powerful lot of trouble to see nobody ever guessed who this hombre was,â Con told himself. âI wonder why?â
The man was young, not over thirty. He was good-looking and had the face of a man with courage. Yet he was unburned by sun or wind, and his hands were soft.
Obviously, the killer thought the first shot had finished him. He had robbed the man and stripped the identification from his body, and then must have left him. The wounded man recovered consciousness and made an effort to get away. The killer had returned, had guessed the wounded man would keep to the partial shelter of the arroyo, and had headed him off and then shot him down.
âPardner, I reckon Iâm goinâ to find out why,â Con said softly. âYou and me, they didnât want either of us here. You didnât have as much luck as I did. Or maybe you were slower on the draw.â
Turning to a
Brushing the snow from his saddle he remounted, turning the grulla mustang down the arroyo. The man, whoever he might be, was wounded and afoot, and the worst storm in years was piling the ravines with drifts.
The direction of the tracks proved the man a stranger. No Black Rock man would head in that direction if badly hurt. In that direction lay thirty miles of desert, and at the end of those miles only the ramshackle ruins of a ghost town.
Con started the mustang off at a rapid trot, his eyes searching the snow. Suddenly, he glimpsed the wounded man. Yet even as his eyes found the stumbling figure, a shot rang out.
Fargo hit the trail beside his horse, six-gun in hand. He could see nothing, only the blur of softly falling snow, hissing slightly. There was no sound, no movement. Then, just as he was about to avert his eyes, a clump of snow toppled from the lip of the arroyo.
He hesitated an instant, watching. Then he clambered up the steep wall of the arroyo and stood looking down at the tracks. Here a man had come to the edge, and here he had waited, kneeling in the snow. He was gone now, and within a quarter of a mile his tracks would be wiped out.
Con Fargo slid back into the arroyo and walked over to the fallen man. The fellow wore no heavy coat, and he was bleeding badly. Yet his heart was beating.
âThis moving may cash your chips, old-timer, but youâd die out here, anyway,â Con said.
He lifted the man and carried him back to his horse. It took some doing to get the wounded man into the saddle and mount behind him. The mustang didnât like the smell of blood and didnât like to carry double. When Fargo was in the saddle he let the grulla have his head, and the horse headed off through the storm, intent on the stable and an end to this foolishness.
An hour later, with the wounded man stripped of his clothes, Con went to work on him. He had the rough skill of the frontier fighter who was accustomed to working with wounds. The man had been shot twice. The first bullet had been high, just under his left collarbone, but it had spilled a lot of blood. The second shot had gone in right over the heart.
----
F OR THREE BITTER days he fought for the manâs life, three days of blizzard. Then the wounded man began to fail, and at daylight on the fourth morning, he died.
Getting out for a doctor would have been impossible. It was twelve miles to Black Rock, and with snow deep in the passes he dared not make the attempt. And the one doctor in town wouldnât cross the street to help Fargo or anyone like him.
Thoughtfully, Con studied the dead man. To somebody, somewhere, this man meant much. For whatever reason the man came west, it had been important enough to warrant his murder.
For this was no casual robbery and murder. Every effort had been made to prevent identification of the dead man. The labels had been torn from his store bought clothes. There were no letters, no papers, no wallet and no money. All had been removed.
âSomebody went to a powerful lot of trouble to see nobody ever guessed who this hombre was,â Con told himself. âI wonder why?â
The man was young, not over thirty. He was good-looking and had the face of a man with courage. Yet he was unburned by sun or wind, and his hands were soft.
Obviously, the killer thought the first shot had finished him. He had robbed the man and stripped the identification from his body, and then must have left him. The wounded man recovered consciousness and made an effort to get away. The killer had returned, had guessed the wounded man would keep to the partial shelter of the arroyo, and had headed him off and then shot him down.
âPardner, I reckon Iâm goinâ to find out why,â Con said softly. âYou and me, they didnât want either of us here. You didnât have as much luck as I did. Or maybe you were slower on the draw.â
Turning to a
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