Read Online Law Of the Desert Born (Ss) (1984) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L'amour
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cedars. Buzzards lifted from it, flapping their great wings. Doc's eyes glinted, and he spat. "Jim Walker's mare," he said, "an' his saddle." They pushed on, circling the dead horse. Gatlin pointed. "Look,, he said, "he wasn't killed. He was crawlin' away.
"Yeah"-Doc was grim--"but not far. Look at the blood he was losin'."
They got down from their horses, their faces grim. Both men knew what they'd find, and neither man was looking forward to the moment. Doc slid his rifle fro m the scabbard. Jim Walker was by way o' bein' a friend o' mine, he said. I take his goin' right hard .
The trail was easy. Twice the wounded man had obviously lain still for a long time. They found torn cloth where he had ripped up his shirt to bandage a wound. They walked on until they saw the gray rocks and the foot of the low bluff. It was a cul-de-sac.
-Wait a minute, Gatlin said. Look at this. He indicated the tracks of a man who had walked up the trail. He had stopped there, and there was blood on the sage, spattered blood. The faces of the men hardened, for the deeper impression of one foot, the way the step was taken, and the spattered blood told but one thing. The killer had walked up and kicked the wounded man.
They had little farther to go. The wounded man had nerve, and nothing had stopped him. He was backed up under a clump of brush that grew from the side of the bluff, and he lay on his face. That was an indication to these men that Walker had been conscious for some time, that he had sought a place where the buzzards couldn't get at him.
Doc turned, and his gray white eyes were icy. "Step your boot beside that track, he said, his rifle partly lifted.
Jim Gatlin stared back at the man and felt cold and empty inside. At that moment, familiar with danger as he was, he was glad he wasn't the killer. He stepped over to the tracks and made a print beside them. His boot was almost an inch shorter and of a different type. f igger so," Doc said. But I aimed to mak e sure.
-On the wall there," Gatlin said. He scratched somethin' .
Both men bent over. It was plain, scratched with an edge of whitish rock on the slate of a small slab, Cary done . . . and no more.
Doc straightened. He can wait a few hours more. Let's get to town .
***
Tucker's street was more crowded than usual when they rode up to Ashton's office and swung down. Jim Gatlin pulled open the door and stepped in. The tall, gray-haired man behind the desk looked up. "You're Ashton?" Gatlin demanded.
At the answering nod, he opened his shirt and unbuckled his money belt. "There's ten thousand there. Bid in the XY for Cochrane an' Gatlin."
Ashton's eyes sparkled with sudden satisfaction. "'You're her partner?" he asked. "You're putting up the money? It's a fine thing you're doing, man."
"I'm a partner only in name. My gun backs the brand, that's all. She may need a gun behind her for a little while, an' I've got it."
He turned to Doc, but the man was gone. Briefly., Gatlin explained what they had found and added, "Wing Cary's headed for town now."
"Headed for town?" Ashton's head jerked around. "He's here. Came in about twenty minutes ago!"
Jim Gatlin spun on his heel and strode from the office. On the street, pulling his hat brim low against the glare, he stared left, then right. There were men on the street, but they were drifting inside now. There was no sign of the man called Doc or of Cary.
Gatlin's heels were sharp and hard on the boardwalk. He moved swiftly, his hands swinging alongside his guns. His hard brown face was cool, and his lips were tight. At the Barrelhouse, he paused, put up his left hand, and stepped in. All faces turned toward him, but none was that of Cary. "Seen Wing Cary?" he demanded. "He murdered Jim Walker."
Nobody replied, and then an oldish man turned his head and jerked it down the street. "He's getti ng his hair cut, right next to the livery barn. Waitin' for the auction to start up."
Gatlin stepped back through the door. A dark figure,
"Yeah"-Doc was grim--"but not far. Look at the blood he was losin'."
They got down from their horses, their faces grim. Both men knew what they'd find, and neither man was looking forward to the moment. Doc slid his rifle fro m the scabbard. Jim Walker was by way o' bein' a friend o' mine, he said. I take his goin' right hard .
The trail was easy. Twice the wounded man had obviously lain still for a long time. They found torn cloth where he had ripped up his shirt to bandage a wound. They walked on until they saw the gray rocks and the foot of the low bluff. It was a cul-de-sac.
-Wait a minute, Gatlin said. Look at this. He indicated the tracks of a man who had walked up the trail. He had stopped there, and there was blood on the sage, spattered blood. The faces of the men hardened, for the deeper impression of one foot, the way the step was taken, and the spattered blood told but one thing. The killer had walked up and kicked the wounded man.
They had little farther to go. The wounded man had nerve, and nothing had stopped him. He was backed up under a clump of brush that grew from the side of the bluff, and he lay on his face. That was an indication to these men that Walker had been conscious for some time, that he had sought a place where the buzzards couldn't get at him.
Doc turned, and his gray white eyes were icy. "Step your boot beside that track, he said, his rifle partly lifted.
Jim Gatlin stared back at the man and felt cold and empty inside. At that moment, familiar with danger as he was, he was glad he wasn't the killer. He stepped over to the tracks and made a print beside them. His boot was almost an inch shorter and of a different type. f igger so," Doc said. But I aimed to mak e sure.
-On the wall there," Gatlin said. He scratched somethin' .
Both men bent over. It was plain, scratched with an edge of whitish rock on the slate of a small slab, Cary done . . . and no more.
Doc straightened. He can wait a few hours more. Let's get to town .
***
Tucker's street was more crowded than usual when they rode up to Ashton's office and swung down. Jim Gatlin pulled open the door and stepped in. The tall, gray-haired man behind the desk looked up. "You're Ashton?" Gatlin demanded.
At the answering nod, he opened his shirt and unbuckled his money belt. "There's ten thousand there. Bid in the XY for Cochrane an' Gatlin."
Ashton's eyes sparkled with sudden satisfaction. "'You're her partner?" he asked. "You're putting up the money? It's a fine thing you're doing, man."
"I'm a partner only in name. My gun backs the brand, that's all. She may need a gun behind her for a little while, an' I've got it."
He turned to Doc, but the man was gone. Briefly., Gatlin explained what they had found and added, "Wing Cary's headed for town now."
"Headed for town?" Ashton's head jerked around. "He's here. Came in about twenty minutes ago!"
Jim Gatlin spun on his heel and strode from the office. On the street, pulling his hat brim low against the glare, he stared left, then right. There were men on the street, but they were drifting inside now. There was no sign of the man called Doc or of Cary.
Gatlin's heels were sharp and hard on the boardwalk. He moved swiftly, his hands swinging alongside his guns. His hard brown face was cool, and his lips were tight. At the Barrelhouse, he paused, put up his left hand, and stepped in. All faces turned toward him, but none was that of Cary. "Seen Wing Cary?" he demanded. "He murdered Jim Walker."
Nobody replied, and then an oldish man turned his head and jerked it down the street. "He's getti ng his hair cut, right next to the livery barn. Waitin' for the auction to start up."
Gatlin stepped back through the door. A dark figure,
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