Read Online Flint (1960) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis L'amour
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Wild Bill or Clay Allison, or any of them. There's some say he's killed more men than all of them put together!"
"Shot 'em in the back," the other said contemptuously.
"So he shot from ambush -- he killed 'em, didn't he?" He paused. "I wonder who he's to kill out here?"
Flint walked back to the counter where Sulphur Tom was piling the supplies. "I'll eat a can of those peaches here," he said, and opened a can and began to spear them with his knife blade.
When the mail and the box had arrived for Jim Flint, Sulphur Tom had been excited. He had never known Flint, but Sulphur Tom had had a friend who sometimes kept mail for the gunfighter and received money from him. It had been a good thing, and Sulphur Tom thought he might do the same.
More than the money he wanted the association. Like many another man before him he liked the connection with a big-name man, and liked to have secret information. He was not a talker, but it pleased him to know what others did not.
At first glance he felt a sharp sense of disappointment. This man was too young, and there was a pale shade beneath the sunburn that told of a face long sheltered. Then he remembered how it was that a man might be kept from the sun for years.
Prison.
This man could not be the Flint. He was too young. What had Flint's first name been? He could not recall that he ever heard of him as anything but Flint.
How old had he been?
Come to think of it, he did not know. He had never seen Flint, but he had always surmised him to be a man in his thirties or forties, and that had been a long time ago. He stole another look at the man eating the peaches.
It could be. It just could be.
"A handy man," he said aloud, "might make himself some money hereabouts. There's trouble breeding."
As no reply was forthcoming, he added, "Knowed of a man who favored that Six-Shooter brand -- but that was long ago."
"Old things are best forgotten." Flint got down from the counter where he had been seated while eating the peaches and went out to the water trough to rinse off his hands. He dried them on his jeans, glancing up the trail as he did so.
Riders were coming. Four of them.
He went back into the store, suddenly irritable at being found here by strangers. The last thing he wanted was to arouse curiosity. The fewer people who knew of his presence the better.
He looked around the store. New York seemed far, far away. The man who had been James T. Kettleman seemed a total stranger. Already he was thinking of himself as Jim Flint.
He looked at himself in a fly-specked mirror, and saw nothing there that looked like death, yet he knew that death was looking back at him. It was unbelievable that a man who had always been so strong could die so simply, yet it was happening.
Despite this thing inside him that was slowly eating away his life, he had always been a man who lived with his muscles as much as with his brain. He had never been ill.
From the day he arrived in New York he had continued his activity, going every day to the gymnasium. He had boxed, wrestled, played handball. And in that second year in New York, before he had begun to win some reputation in the business world, he had fought several times in the prize ring. It had helped to build the capital that finally won success.
He had fought Jack Rooke, an English fighter, meeting Mm at Bull's Ferry in New Jersey, and whipping him in six minutes with the bare knuckles. He had the Englishman down five times before the end.
A month later he fought ninety-five rounds with Hen Winkle, before the crowd broke down the ropes to save their favorite, Winkle, from a knockout. The fight lasted over two hours.
Two months later, for a thousand-dollar side-bet, he defeated Butt Reilly, knocking him out after one hour of fighting.
He fought four times during the following year, his last bout being at Fox's American Theatre in Philadelphia, where he won from John Dwyer in nineteen minutes.
After that there was no more time for
"Shot 'em in the back," the other said contemptuously.
"So he shot from ambush -- he killed 'em, didn't he?" He paused. "I wonder who he's to kill out here?"
Flint walked back to the counter where Sulphur Tom was piling the supplies. "I'll eat a can of those peaches here," he said, and opened a can and began to spear them with his knife blade.
When the mail and the box had arrived for Jim Flint, Sulphur Tom had been excited. He had never known Flint, but Sulphur Tom had had a friend who sometimes kept mail for the gunfighter and received money from him. It had been a good thing, and Sulphur Tom thought he might do the same.
More than the money he wanted the association. Like many another man before him he liked the connection with a big-name man, and liked to have secret information. He was not a talker, but it pleased him to know what others did not.
At first glance he felt a sharp sense of disappointment. This man was too young, and there was a pale shade beneath the sunburn that told of a face long sheltered. Then he remembered how it was that a man might be kept from the sun for years.
Prison.
This man could not be the Flint. He was too young. What had Flint's first name been? He could not recall that he ever heard of him as anything but Flint.
How old had he been?
Come to think of it, he did not know. He had never seen Flint, but he had always surmised him to be a man in his thirties or forties, and that had been a long time ago. He stole another look at the man eating the peaches.
It could be. It just could be.
"A handy man," he said aloud, "might make himself some money hereabouts. There's trouble breeding."
As no reply was forthcoming, he added, "Knowed of a man who favored that Six-Shooter brand -- but that was long ago."
"Old things are best forgotten." Flint got down from the counter where he had been seated while eating the peaches and went out to the water trough to rinse off his hands. He dried them on his jeans, glancing up the trail as he did so.
Riders were coming. Four of them.
He went back into the store, suddenly irritable at being found here by strangers. The last thing he wanted was to arouse curiosity. The fewer people who knew of his presence the better.
He looked around the store. New York seemed far, far away. The man who had been James T. Kettleman seemed a total stranger. Already he was thinking of himself as Jim Flint.
He looked at himself in a fly-specked mirror, and saw nothing there that looked like death, yet he knew that death was looking back at him. It was unbelievable that a man who had always been so strong could die so simply, yet it was happening.
Despite this thing inside him that was slowly eating away his life, he had always been a man who lived with his muscles as much as with his brain. He had never been ill.
From the day he arrived in New York he had continued his activity, going every day to the gymnasium. He had boxed, wrestled, played handball. And in that second year in New York, before he had begun to win some reputation in the business world, he had fought several times in the prize ring. It had helped to build the capital that finally won success.
He had fought Jack Rooke, an English fighter, meeting Mm at Bull's Ferry in New Jersey, and whipping him in six minutes with the bare knuckles. He had the Englishman down five times before the end.
A month later he fought ninety-five rounds with Hen Winkle, before the crowd broke down the ropes to save their favorite, Winkle, from a knockout. The fight lasted over two hours.
Two months later, for a thousand-dollar side-bet, he defeated Butt Reilly, knocking him out after one hour of fighting.
He fought four times during the following year, his last bout being at Fox's American Theatre in Philadelphia, where he won from John Dwyer in nineteen minutes.
After that there was no more time for
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