Read Online Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis L’Amour
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bitterly. “As long as he’s alive he’s a danger. He’s yella, an’ them kind worry me. They don’t face up to a man. Not a bit.”
Miles away, on the B-Bar, Timm paced restlessly while awaiting the return of Kelsey. He should have been back by now. Some of the crew were down in the bunkhouse and drunk. Where the liquor had come from he did not know, but he could guess. With Kelsey around he wouldn’t be worried, but this was too big a house for one man to defend. Maria came in and brought him coffee. When at last they heard a rattle of hoofs, Timm ran to the door. It was Mary.
“Gosh, Ma’am!” His voice shook. “I sure am glad to see you back! I been worried. Tom ain’t showed up.”
“Is Clell out there?”
“I don’t figure so. He rode off an’ I ain’t seen him come back.” Timm walked restlessly from window to window. “You better eat something. Did you see Blaine?”
“Yes. He’s with us. And Rip Coker is with him.”
That was good news to Timm. Utah’s reputation was widely known, and while he knew little of Rip Coker, it was sufficient to know the man was a fighter. Nevertheless, knowing Tom Kelsey as he did, his continued absence worried him.
“When’s Blaine showin’ up?” he asked.
“He wanted to see Ortmann first. He thinks he can talk him out of butting in until the fight is over.”
“Ma’am, where could Kelsey go? This ain’t right. He was to start me back for here, which he done. Then he was to see Blaine. An’ as Blaine met you, he sure enough did that—but where is he now?”
----
H OWEVER, TOM KELSEY was not thinking of Timm. Nor was he thinking of getting back to the B-Bar. He was lying face down in the trail atop Mocking Bird Pass with three bullets in his body and his gun lying near his outflung hand.
Kelsey lay there in the road, his blood darkening the sand. A slow cool wind wound through the trees. Leaves stirred on the brush. His horse walked a few feet away, then looked back nervously, not liking the smell of blood. Then it walked into the thick green grass and began to crop grass. Kelsey did not move. The wind stirred the thin material on the back of his vest, moved his neckerchief.
Utah Blaine and Rip Coker found him there just at sundown. The best route from Yellowjacket to the B-Bar lay over 22 Mesa and through Mocking Bird. They switched horses at the Rice place on Sycamore. Rice was a lonely squatter who gardened a little, trapped a little, and broke a few wild horses he found in the canyon country. He was neutral and would always be. He took their horses without comment, glancing at Blaine’s swollen and battered face with interest. But he asked no questions. “Take good care of that stallion,” Blaine said. “I’ll be back.”
On fresh horses they pushed on, holding to a rapid gait. Things would begin to break fast now; they knew that. There was no time to be lost. Dusk was well along before they pushed into the Pass. Blaine was riding ahead when suddenly he reined in and palmed his gun. “Horse ahead,” he said hoarsely. “No rider.”
Rip grabbed his Winchester out of the bucket and spurred forward. Alert for an ambush, they glimpsed Kelsey’s body almost at once. “Man down!” Rip said, and swung from the saddle. Then he swore.
“Who is it?” Blaine dropped to the ground.
“Kelsey. He’s shot to doll rags. How he stayed alive this long, I don’t know.”
Blaine turned abruptly into a small copse and began breaking up dead dry branches. Swiftly, he built a fire. Making a square dish of birch bark, he began to boil water. Then he helped Coker carry the injured man to the fire. Coker stared at the bark container.
“Hell,” he said, “why doesn’t it burn? I never saw that before.”
“Water absorbs the heat,” Blaine explained. “Don’t let the flames get above the water level. It’s an Injun trick.”
Working swiftly, they removed enough of Kelsey’s clothes to get at the wounds. All were bad. Two were through
Miles away, on the B-Bar, Timm paced restlessly while awaiting the return of Kelsey. He should have been back by now. Some of the crew were down in the bunkhouse and drunk. Where the liquor had come from he did not know, but he could guess. With Kelsey around he wouldn’t be worried, but this was too big a house for one man to defend. Maria came in and brought him coffee. When at last they heard a rattle of hoofs, Timm ran to the door. It was Mary.
“Gosh, Ma’am!” His voice shook. “I sure am glad to see you back! I been worried. Tom ain’t showed up.”
“Is Clell out there?”
“I don’t figure so. He rode off an’ I ain’t seen him come back.” Timm walked restlessly from window to window. “You better eat something. Did you see Blaine?”
“Yes. He’s with us. And Rip Coker is with him.”
That was good news to Timm. Utah’s reputation was widely known, and while he knew little of Rip Coker, it was sufficient to know the man was a fighter. Nevertheless, knowing Tom Kelsey as he did, his continued absence worried him.
“When’s Blaine showin’ up?” he asked.
“He wanted to see Ortmann first. He thinks he can talk him out of butting in until the fight is over.”
“Ma’am, where could Kelsey go? This ain’t right. He was to start me back for here, which he done. Then he was to see Blaine. An’ as Blaine met you, he sure enough did that—but where is he now?”
----
H OWEVER, TOM KELSEY was not thinking of Timm. Nor was he thinking of getting back to the B-Bar. He was lying face down in the trail atop Mocking Bird Pass with three bullets in his body and his gun lying near his outflung hand.
Kelsey lay there in the road, his blood darkening the sand. A slow cool wind wound through the trees. Leaves stirred on the brush. His horse walked a few feet away, then looked back nervously, not liking the smell of blood. Then it walked into the thick green grass and began to crop grass. Kelsey did not move. The wind stirred the thin material on the back of his vest, moved his neckerchief.
Utah Blaine and Rip Coker found him there just at sundown. The best route from Yellowjacket to the B-Bar lay over 22 Mesa and through Mocking Bird. They switched horses at the Rice place on Sycamore. Rice was a lonely squatter who gardened a little, trapped a little, and broke a few wild horses he found in the canyon country. He was neutral and would always be. He took their horses without comment, glancing at Blaine’s swollen and battered face with interest. But he asked no questions. “Take good care of that stallion,” Blaine said. “I’ll be back.”
On fresh horses they pushed on, holding to a rapid gait. Things would begin to break fast now; they knew that. There was no time to be lost. Dusk was well along before they pushed into the Pass. Blaine was riding ahead when suddenly he reined in and palmed his gun. “Horse ahead,” he said hoarsely. “No rider.”
Rip grabbed his Winchester out of the bucket and spurred forward. Alert for an ambush, they glimpsed Kelsey’s body almost at once. “Man down!” Rip said, and swung from the saddle. Then he swore.
“Who is it?” Blaine dropped to the ground.
“Kelsey. He’s shot to doll rags. How he stayed alive this long, I don’t know.”
Blaine turned abruptly into a small copse and began breaking up dead dry branches. Swiftly, he built a fire. Making a square dish of birch bark, he began to boil water. Then he helped Coker carry the injured man to the fire. Coker stared at the bark container.
“Hell,” he said, “why doesn’t it burn? I never saw that before.”
“Water absorbs the heat,” Blaine explained. “Don’t let the flames get above the water level. It’s an Injun trick.”
Working swiftly, they removed enough of Kelsey’s clothes to get at the wounds. All were bad. Two were through
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