Read Online Killoe (1962) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L'amour
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Comanches, and we're in no shape to stand up to that kind of a crowd. I say we let them shift for themselves."
Zeno glanced up at Tap, but his long horse-face revealed nothing.
Pa glanced at me. "What do you say about this, Dan?"
"I told them they were our guests, and they were safe with US.
Pa looked at Tap. "What's wrong with that?"
Tap's face darkened, and his eyes were cold. "Pa, you don't know what you're saying.
Neither you nor the cattle nor any of us will get through if that outfit tackles us! I heard that Mex say he knew where their hide-out was, and that's the best-kept secret in this part of the country. They dasn't let him live."
"We will try to see that he does," Pa said quietly.
Pa was a square-faced man with carefully combed gray hair and a trimmed gray mustache. No matter how bad times got or how busy we were, Pa was always shaved, his hair was always trimmed. And I do not recall ever seeing Pa lean on anything--he always stood on his own two feet.
He looked steadily at Tap now. "I am surprised, Tap. You should know that I would never leave a man--least of all a man and a woman-out here on the plains alone. If we have to fight to protect them, then we shall have to fight."
Tap Henry stared at him with sullen eyes. "Pa, you can't do that. These folks are nothing to you. They are--"
"We took them in. They needed help. So long as I live, they will have it from me. I have never turned a man from my door, and I never shall."
Tap Henry drew a deep breath. "Pa . . " He was almost pleading. "These Comancheros... they're worse than Comanches. Believe me, I know--"
"How do you know, Tap?" Pa asked mildly.
Tap shut up and turned sharply away. That he believed us all to be a pack of fools was obvious, and maybe he was right. Pa yeas not a man who ever preached to anyone, least of all to his boys, but he had taught us always to stand on principle. I say taught us, but it was mostly example.
A man always knew where Pa Killoe stood on any question, and no nonsense about it.
Not that we had any doubts about the trouble we were in. The plains were alive with Comanches, and the Comancheros were as bad, if not worse, and Tap was right--they would be hunting Miguel.
An idea that was sheer inspiration came to me of a sudden. More than likely they already believed Miguel to be dead, but suppose they wanted to see the body before they believed? "Pa... I think we should bury him. Miguel, I mean."
Pa glanced around at me; and Conchita, who had come down from the wagon, stood stock-still, listening. "We should bury him right here," I said, "and put a marker over the grave."
Zeno Yearly walked over to the wagon and took a shovel from the straps that bound it to the wagonside where it would be handy. Without any further talk, he walked off to one side and stuck the spade into the ground. Getting another shovel, I joined him.
We dug the grave four feet deep then dropped in a layer of big rocks, then another. If they were curious enough to open the grave they might not*be curious enough to lift out all those rocks. We filled in the dirt and put up a marker.
"'Name?" Yearly asked.
"No," I said, "we don't want them to think he talked. Just make it: Unknown Mexican Died on This Spot April 16, 1858."
After a short nooning, we rolled our wagons again, and the herd moved on.
Tap had nothing to say, but he was short-tempered as a rattlesnake in the blind, which is the way they refer to a snake when he is shedding his skin. At that time a rattler won't rattle----he simply strikes at anything that moves.
But Tap was wary. He rode far out much of the time, scanning the hills. The word got around, of course, and most of the hands went out fully armed and loaded for bear. We kept the herd moving late, and five miles further on we crossed the South Fork, sometimes called the Boiling Concho. This was real water--deep, clear, and quite rapid in some places, and the herd spread out along the banks for water while we hunted a place
Zeno glanced up at Tap, but his long horse-face revealed nothing.
Pa glanced at me. "What do you say about this, Dan?"
"I told them they were our guests, and they were safe with US.
Pa looked at Tap. "What's wrong with that?"
Tap's face darkened, and his eyes were cold. "Pa, you don't know what you're saying.
Neither you nor the cattle nor any of us will get through if that outfit tackles us! I heard that Mex say he knew where their hide-out was, and that's the best-kept secret in this part of the country. They dasn't let him live."
"We will try to see that he does," Pa said quietly.
Pa was a square-faced man with carefully combed gray hair and a trimmed gray mustache. No matter how bad times got or how busy we were, Pa was always shaved, his hair was always trimmed. And I do not recall ever seeing Pa lean on anything--he always stood on his own two feet.
He looked steadily at Tap now. "I am surprised, Tap. You should know that I would never leave a man--least of all a man and a woman-out here on the plains alone. If we have to fight to protect them, then we shall have to fight."
Tap Henry stared at him with sullen eyes. "Pa, you can't do that. These folks are nothing to you. They are--"
"We took them in. They needed help. So long as I live, they will have it from me. I have never turned a man from my door, and I never shall."
Tap Henry drew a deep breath. "Pa . . " He was almost pleading. "These Comancheros... they're worse than Comanches. Believe me, I know--"
"How do you know, Tap?" Pa asked mildly.
Tap shut up and turned sharply away. That he believed us all to be a pack of fools was obvious, and maybe he was right. Pa yeas not a man who ever preached to anyone, least of all to his boys, but he had taught us always to stand on principle. I say taught us, but it was mostly example.
A man always knew where Pa Killoe stood on any question, and no nonsense about it.
Not that we had any doubts about the trouble we were in. The plains were alive with Comanches, and the Comancheros were as bad, if not worse, and Tap was right--they would be hunting Miguel.
An idea that was sheer inspiration came to me of a sudden. More than likely they already believed Miguel to be dead, but suppose they wanted to see the body before they believed? "Pa... I think we should bury him. Miguel, I mean."
Pa glanced around at me; and Conchita, who had come down from the wagon, stood stock-still, listening. "We should bury him right here," I said, "and put a marker over the grave."
Zeno Yearly walked over to the wagon and took a shovel from the straps that bound it to the wagonside where it would be handy. Without any further talk, he walked off to one side and stuck the spade into the ground. Getting another shovel, I joined him.
We dug the grave four feet deep then dropped in a layer of big rocks, then another. If they were curious enough to open the grave they might not*be curious enough to lift out all those rocks. We filled in the dirt and put up a marker.
"'Name?" Yearly asked.
"No," I said, "we don't want them to think he talked. Just make it: Unknown Mexican Died on This Spot April 16, 1858."
After a short nooning, we rolled our wagons again, and the herd moved on.
Tap had nothing to say, but he was short-tempered as a rattlesnake in the blind, which is the way they refer to a snake when he is shedding his skin. At that time a rattler won't rattle----he simply strikes at anything that moves.
But Tap was wary. He rode far out much of the time, scanning the hills. The word got around, of course, and most of the hands went out fully armed and loaded for bear. We kept the herd moving late, and five miles further on we crossed the South Fork, sometimes called the Boiling Concho. This was real water--deep, clear, and quite rapid in some places, and the herd spread out along the banks for water while we hunted a place
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