Read Online Over on the Dry Side by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online Page A

of coins and such. But I paid no mind to the thought. I’d not even seen that girl yet, and I’d not believe Chantry ’til I did.
    Right that minute I didn’t care much for him. He was a sharp, hard man, I figgered, with reasons of his own for what he done. And seen close up that black suit of his was worn on the cuffs, and the boots he polished nigh ever’ night, they were far from new.
    Not that Pa and me had better. But he set himself up so high.
    â€œWhat was her name?” I asked him again. I recalled her name. It was a dream name that was downright pretty.
    â€œMarny Fox. She’s Irish, Doby,” he said, “or part Irish. They don’t much like the Irish back east. Too many of us were poor when we came. But this is a good land and we will earn a place for ourselves.”
    â€œI heard Pa speak of how hard it was. Why do folks have to be like that, Mr. Chantry?”
    â€œIt’s the way of the world. Across the sea, every man has a place he fills, and it’s a hard and long thing to break free from it.
    â€œWe have to earn our place, Doby, just like all the others. There’s no special sun that shines on any man, regardless of religion, philosophy, or the color of his skin. There’s no reason why any man should expect a special dispensation from pope or president. In this country, more than any other, you have to make your mark. You’re not going to be treated like something special until you are.
    â€œSome men become outlaws. They can’t make a living honestly, so they try to do it by force and strength. But everything is against them, and they cannot win.”
    â€œA man has to have some schoolin’,” I said.
    â€œIt helps. Every book is a school in itself. Each one can teach you something. But you can learn a lot by observation. The most skillful trader I ever knew, a man who started as a pack-peddler—he was Irish, too—became a mighty big man in business, and he couldn’t write his own name until he was over forty.
    â€œBy the time he was fifty he could speak four languages and write as good a letter as any man.…He was a wealthy man before he was able to write.”
    â€œIf you know so much, why ain’t you done better?” I demanded, rudely. “I don’t see you sportin’ no pocketful of gold, an’ you’re out here at the bobtail end of creation with nothin’ but a horse.”
    He looked at me and his eyes were almighty cold. “I haven’t done well, Doby, because I’ve been following a will-o’-the-wisp. Someday I’ll find out what it really was.” He paused a moment. “Your comment is just. I know what can be done, but I haven’t done it. Perhaps there were too many rivers I wanted to cross, too many canyons I hadn’t followed, too many towns with dusty streets down which I hadn’t ridden.
    â€œThe trouble is with wandering that after a bit a man looks around and the horizons are still there. There are nameless canyons and rivers still unknown to man. But a mortal man is suddenly old. The dream is there still, but rheumatism and weakening strength rob him of the chance to go farther.
    â€œSee me five years from now, Doby…or ten.”
    Well, I just looked at him. He wasn’t payin’ me no mind, just lookin’ off across the country, thinkin’ his own thoughts. Me, I had thoughts of my own.
    Then Chantry walked out to his horse. Whenever he had thinkin’ to do, he curried his horse, fussed over it. You’d think that black was a baby. Yet he cared for the packhorse just about as well.
    I went inside. Pa was settin’ by the fire. “Pa, you think he’s speakin’ the truth?”
    â€œWho?” Pa was startled. “You mean Chantry? Course he is!”
    â€œBut maybe they had reason to kill his brother, if they done it.”
    â€œWe done found the body, son. And I know ’bout Mowatt and his