Read Online Ride the Dark Trail (1972) by Louis - Sackett's 18 L'amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis - Sackett's 18 L'amour
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had killed a man or two over that way and they'd made it hot for him, so he'd pulled his stakes.
I'd come in there first as a long-geared apple-knocking youngster. I'd been swinging a hammer on the U.P. tracks and got into a shooting at the End of Track. The men I killed had friends and I had none but a few Irish track-workers who weren't gunfighters, so I pulled my freight.
"Are you on the dodge?" It was the Anglo who asked the question.
"Well," I said, "there's a posse from Nebraska that's probably started back home by now. I came thisaway because I figured I'd see Isom Dart ... I wanted to sort of pass word down the trail."
"What word?" Herrara's tone was belligerent.
The Mexican had been drinking wine, as had the others. He was in an ugly mood and I was a stranger who did not seem impressed by him. There had been some other Mexicans down in Sonora and Chihuahua who weren't impressed, either, and that was why he was up here.
"Milo Talon," I said, "is a friend of mine, and I want to pass the word along that he's needed on the Empty, over east of here, and that he's to come careful."
'I'll tell Dart," the American said.
Herrara never took his eyes off me. He was mean, I knew that, and he'd cut up several men with his knife. He had a way of taking it out and honing it until sharp, then with a yell he'd jump you and start cutting. But the honing act was to get a man scared before he jumped him. It was a good stunt, and usually it worked.
He got out his whetstone, but before he could draw his knife I drew mine. "Say, just what I need." Before he knew what I was going to do I had reached over and taken the stone. Then I began whetting my own blade.
Well, it was a thing to see. He was astonished, then mad. He sat there empty-handed while I calmly put an edge to my blade, which was already razor sharp. I tried the blade on a hair from my head and it cut nicely, so I passed the stone back to him.
"Gracias," I said, smiling friendly-like. "A man never knows when he'll need a good edge."
My knife was a sort of modified Bowie, but made by the Tinker. No better knives were ever made than those made by the Tinker back in Tennessee. He was a Gypsy pack peddler who drifted down the mountains now and again, but he sold mighty few knives. The secret of those blades had come from India where his people, thousands of years back, had been making the finest steel in the world. The steel for the fine blades of Damascus and Toledo actually came from India, and there's an iron pillar in India that's stood for near two thousand years, and not a sign of rust.
I showed them the knife. "That there," I said, "is a Tinker-made knife. It will cut right through most blades and will cut a man shoulder to belt with one stroke."
Tucking it back in my belt, I got up. "Thanks for the grub. I'll be drifting. I don't figure to be trapped inside if Dutch comes along."
Nobody said a word as I went outside, tightened my cinch, and prepared to mount.
Then the American came out. "That was beautiful," he said, "Joe is an old friend of mine, but he's had that coming for a long time. He didn't know what to think. He still doesn't."
"You're an educated man," I said.
"Yes. I studied law."
"There's need for lawyers," I said. "I may need one myself sometime."
He shrugged, then looked away. "I should pull out," he said. "I just sort of drifted into this, and I've stayed on. I guess it doesn't make much sense."
"If I knew the law," I said, "I'd hang out my shingle. This is a new country. No telling where a man might go."
"I guess you're right. God knows I've thought of it, but sometimes a man gets caught in a sort of backwater."
I stepped into the saddle, listening beyond his voice. Nobody came from the cabin. I heard no sound on the trail.
The American pointed. "Isom Dart has a cabin down that way. He's a black man, and smart."
"We've met," I said.
He looked up at me. "They'll be wondering who you are," he said. "It isn't often a man stands up to
I'd come in there first as a long-geared apple-knocking youngster. I'd been swinging a hammer on the U.P. tracks and got into a shooting at the End of Track. The men I killed had friends and I had none but a few Irish track-workers who weren't gunfighters, so I pulled my freight.
"Are you on the dodge?" It was the Anglo who asked the question.
"Well," I said, "there's a posse from Nebraska that's probably started back home by now. I came thisaway because I figured I'd see Isom Dart ... I wanted to sort of pass word down the trail."
"What word?" Herrara's tone was belligerent.
The Mexican had been drinking wine, as had the others. He was in an ugly mood and I was a stranger who did not seem impressed by him. There had been some other Mexicans down in Sonora and Chihuahua who weren't impressed, either, and that was why he was up here.
"Milo Talon," I said, "is a friend of mine, and I want to pass the word along that he's needed on the Empty, over east of here, and that he's to come careful."
'I'll tell Dart," the American said.
Herrara never took his eyes off me. He was mean, I knew that, and he'd cut up several men with his knife. He had a way of taking it out and honing it until sharp, then with a yell he'd jump you and start cutting. But the honing act was to get a man scared before he jumped him. It was a good stunt, and usually it worked.
He got out his whetstone, but before he could draw his knife I drew mine. "Say, just what I need." Before he knew what I was going to do I had reached over and taken the stone. Then I began whetting my own blade.
Well, it was a thing to see. He was astonished, then mad. He sat there empty-handed while I calmly put an edge to my blade, which was already razor sharp. I tried the blade on a hair from my head and it cut nicely, so I passed the stone back to him.
"Gracias," I said, smiling friendly-like. "A man never knows when he'll need a good edge."
My knife was a sort of modified Bowie, but made by the Tinker. No better knives were ever made than those made by the Tinker back in Tennessee. He was a Gypsy pack peddler who drifted down the mountains now and again, but he sold mighty few knives. The secret of those blades had come from India where his people, thousands of years back, had been making the finest steel in the world. The steel for the fine blades of Damascus and Toledo actually came from India, and there's an iron pillar in India that's stood for near two thousand years, and not a sign of rust.
I showed them the knife. "That there," I said, "is a Tinker-made knife. It will cut right through most blades and will cut a man shoulder to belt with one stroke."
Tucking it back in my belt, I got up. "Thanks for the grub. I'll be drifting. I don't figure to be trapped inside if Dutch comes along."
Nobody said a word as I went outside, tightened my cinch, and prepared to mount.
Then the American came out. "That was beautiful," he said, "Joe is an old friend of mine, but he's had that coming for a long time. He didn't know what to think. He still doesn't."
"You're an educated man," I said.
"Yes. I studied law."
"There's need for lawyers," I said. "I may need one myself sometime."
He shrugged, then looked away. "I should pull out," he said. "I just sort of drifted into this, and I've stayed on. I guess it doesn't make much sense."
"If I knew the law," I said, "I'd hang out my shingle. This is a new country. No telling where a man might go."
"I guess you're right. God knows I've thought of it, but sometimes a man gets caught in a sort of backwater."
I stepped into the saddle, listening beyond his voice. Nobody came from the cabin. I heard no sound on the trail.
The American pointed. "Isom Dart has a cabin down that way. He's a black man, and smart."
"We've met," I said.
He looked up at me. "They'll be wondering who you are," he said. "It isn't often a man stands up to
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