Read Online Galloway (1970) by Louis - Sackett's 16 L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis - Sackett's 16 L'amour
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there was a hydrophoby wolf in the neighborhood."
I limped to the corral and roped the grulla mustang Rossiter had agreed to loan me. I saddled up with the borrowed gear, then went to the house.
Rossiter met me at the door. "Sorry to see you go, boy. If you come back this way, drop in."
"I'll return the outfit soon as I can rustle one. Galloway has a little money. I lost all mine back yonder."
"No hurry." Rossiter stepped down off the porch and lowered his tone. "Sackett, you be careful, riding out of here. I think you have made an enemy."
"If he stays out of my way, I'll stay shut of him. I'm not one to hunt trouble.
An' Mr. Rossiter, if you ever need help, you just put your call on a Sackett.
You'll get all the help you need, an' quick. You help one of us and you've helped us all. That's the way we figure it."
The grulla was a good horse, mountain-bred and tough. He was a mite feisty there at first but as soon as he found that I intended to stay in the saddle and take no nonsense he headed off down the trail happily enough. He just wanted to settle as to who was boss.
Shalako wasn't far down the road. I kept to the trees, avoiding the trail, and at noontime I watered in the La Plata River a few miles below the town. When the grulla was watered I taken it back under the trees and found a place there with sunshine and shadow, with grass around, and a place for me to rest, and I rested while the grulla cropped grass.
Fact is, I wasn't up to much, and what lay beyond I did not know. There might be folks at the town that I wanted to see, and some I'd rather fight shy of.
Somehow the thought was in my mind that I was coming home ... this country felt right to me, and I even liked the name of that town.
Shalako ... some Indian name, it sounded like.
Then, for awhile, listening to the cropping of grass and the running water, I slept.
Chapter VIII
The town lay off the road with the most beautiful backdrop of mountains you ever did see, and the La Plata was down off the bench and under the trees, hidden from the town, but close by.
Now when I say "town" I mean it western style. In this country we folks call anything a town where people stop. First off there's a stage stop or a store or maybe only a saloon. Out California way there was a town started because a man's wagon broke down and he just started selling whiskey off the tailgate.
Generally towns in this country, like in the old country, began at river crossings or places where the trails crossed. Folks like to stop at rivers, but the smart ones always cross the river first, and then camp. The river might rise up during the night and hold them for days.
London, folks tells me, began at the only good crossing of the river in many miles. At that place there was a gravel bottom. The same thing folks tell me was true of other cities about the world, but how Shalako came to be, I had no idea.
It was mid-afternoon when my mustang ambled up the one street of the town. With the mountains reared up against the sky in the background there were three buildings, two on one side of the street, one on the other. I swung down in front of the saloon and tied my horse, sizing up the place.
Across the street was a general store and as soon as I could round up some cash I figured to go over there and buy myself an outfit, including boots. Meanwhile I'd tackle the saloon.
Now a western saloon wasn't just a place to belt a few. It was a clubroom for the men, a clearing house for information, and often as not more business was done at the bar than anywhere else around. A man could go into a saloon and find out how the trails were, whether the Indians were on the warpath, or just about anything he needed to know. And I needed to know plenty. Mostly where I could find Galloway.
So I pushed past the swinging doors and went in. It was cool and quiet inside.
The bar ran across about two-thirds of the end of the room, and by the end of the bar there was a door. That bar was polished
I limped to the corral and roped the grulla mustang Rossiter had agreed to loan me. I saddled up with the borrowed gear, then went to the house.
Rossiter met me at the door. "Sorry to see you go, boy. If you come back this way, drop in."
"I'll return the outfit soon as I can rustle one. Galloway has a little money. I lost all mine back yonder."
"No hurry." Rossiter stepped down off the porch and lowered his tone. "Sackett, you be careful, riding out of here. I think you have made an enemy."
"If he stays out of my way, I'll stay shut of him. I'm not one to hunt trouble.
An' Mr. Rossiter, if you ever need help, you just put your call on a Sackett.
You'll get all the help you need, an' quick. You help one of us and you've helped us all. That's the way we figure it."
The grulla was a good horse, mountain-bred and tough. He was a mite feisty there at first but as soon as he found that I intended to stay in the saddle and take no nonsense he headed off down the trail happily enough. He just wanted to settle as to who was boss.
Shalako wasn't far down the road. I kept to the trees, avoiding the trail, and at noontime I watered in the La Plata River a few miles below the town. When the grulla was watered I taken it back under the trees and found a place there with sunshine and shadow, with grass around, and a place for me to rest, and I rested while the grulla cropped grass.
Fact is, I wasn't up to much, and what lay beyond I did not know. There might be folks at the town that I wanted to see, and some I'd rather fight shy of.
Somehow the thought was in my mind that I was coming home ... this country felt right to me, and I even liked the name of that town.
Shalako ... some Indian name, it sounded like.
Then, for awhile, listening to the cropping of grass and the running water, I slept.
Chapter VIII
The town lay off the road with the most beautiful backdrop of mountains you ever did see, and the La Plata was down off the bench and under the trees, hidden from the town, but close by.
Now when I say "town" I mean it western style. In this country we folks call anything a town where people stop. First off there's a stage stop or a store or maybe only a saloon. Out California way there was a town started because a man's wagon broke down and he just started selling whiskey off the tailgate.
Generally towns in this country, like in the old country, began at river crossings or places where the trails crossed. Folks like to stop at rivers, but the smart ones always cross the river first, and then camp. The river might rise up during the night and hold them for days.
London, folks tells me, began at the only good crossing of the river in many miles. At that place there was a gravel bottom. The same thing folks tell me was true of other cities about the world, but how Shalako came to be, I had no idea.
It was mid-afternoon when my mustang ambled up the one street of the town. With the mountains reared up against the sky in the background there were three buildings, two on one side of the street, one on the other. I swung down in front of the saloon and tied my horse, sizing up the place.
Across the street was a general store and as soon as I could round up some cash I figured to go over there and buy myself an outfit, including boots. Meanwhile I'd tackle the saloon.
Now a western saloon wasn't just a place to belt a few. It was a clubroom for the men, a clearing house for information, and often as not more business was done at the bar than anywhere else around. A man could go into a saloon and find out how the trails were, whether the Indians were on the warpath, or just about anything he needed to know. And I needed to know plenty. Mostly where I could find Galloway.
So I pushed past the swinging doors and went in. It was cool and quiet inside.
The bar ran across about two-thirds of the end of the room, and by the end of the bar there was a door. That bar was polished
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