Read Online Riding for the Brand (Ss) (1986) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis L'amour
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coffee on, and while he waited for it he took his guns out and dried them painstakingly, wiping off each shell, and then replacing them in his belt with other shells from a box on a shelf.
He reloaded the guns, and then slipping into his slicker he went outside for his rifle. Between sips of coffee, he worked over his rifle until he was satisfied. Then he threw a small pack together and stuffed his slicker pockets with shotgun shells.
The shotgun was an express gun and short barreled. He slung it from a loop under the slicker. Then he took a lantern and went to the stable and saddled the claybank. Leading the horse outside into the driving rain, he swung into the saddle and turned along the road toward Basin.
There was no letup in the rain. It fell steadily and heavily, yet the claybank slogged along, alternating between a shambling trot and a fast walk. Allen Ring, his chin sunk in the upturned collar of his slicker, watched the drops fall from the brim of his Stetson and felt the bump of the shotgun under his coat.
He had seen little of the tally book, but sufficient to know that it would blow the lid off the very range war they were fearing. Knowing the Hazlitts, he knew they would bring fire and gunplay to every home even remotely connected with the death of their brother.
The horse slid down a steep bank and shambled across the wide wash. Suddenly, the distant roar that had been in his ears for some time sprang into consciousness and he jerked his head up. His horse snorted in alarm, and Ring stared, openmouthed, at the wall of water, towering all of ten feet high, that was rolling down the wash toward him.
With a shrill rebel yell he slapped the spurs to the claybank, and the startled horse turned loose with an astounded leap and hit the ground in a dead run. There was no time to slow for the bank of the wash, and the horse went up, slipped at the very brink, and started to fall back.
Ring hit the ground with both boots and scrambled over the brink, and even as the flood roared down upon them, he heaved on the bridle and the horse cleared the edge and stood trembling.
Swearing softly, Ring kicked the mud from his boots and mounted again. Leaving the raging torrent behind him, he rode on.
Thick blackness of night and heavy clouds lay upon the town when he sloped down the main street and headed the horse toward the barn. He swung down and handed the bridle to the handyman.
"Rub him down"... He said. "I'll be back."
He started for the doors and then stopped, staring at the three horses in neighboring stalls.
The liveryman noticed his glance and looked at him.
"The Hazlitts. They come in about an hour ago, ugly as sin."
Allen Ring stood wide legged, staring grimly out the door. There was a coolness inside him now that he recognized. He dried his hands carefully.
"Bilton in town?" He asked.
"Sure is. Playin' cards over to the Mazatzal Saloon."
"He wear Mex spurs? Big rowels?"
The man rubbed his jaw. "I don't remember. I don't know at all. You watch out"... He warned.
"Folks are on the prod."
Ring stepped out into the street and slogged through the mud to the edge of the boardwalk before the darkened general store. He kicked the mud from his boots and dried his hands again, after carefully unbuttoning his slicker.
Nobody would have a second chance after this. He knew well enough that his walking into the Mazatzal would precipitate an explosion.
Only, he wanted to light the fuse himself, in his own way.
He stood there in the darkness alone, thinking it over. They would all be there. It would be like tossing a match into a lot of fused dynamite.
He wished then that he was a better man with a gun than he was or that he had someone to side him in this, but he had always acted alone and would scarcely know how to act with anyone else.
He walked along the boardwalk with long strides, his boots making hard sounds under the (steady roar of the rain. He couldn't place that spur, that boot. Yet he had to. He had
He reloaded the guns, and then slipping into his slicker he went outside for his rifle. Between sips of coffee, he worked over his rifle until he was satisfied. Then he threw a small pack together and stuffed his slicker pockets with shotgun shells.
The shotgun was an express gun and short barreled. He slung it from a loop under the slicker. Then he took a lantern and went to the stable and saddled the claybank. Leading the horse outside into the driving rain, he swung into the saddle and turned along the road toward Basin.
There was no letup in the rain. It fell steadily and heavily, yet the claybank slogged along, alternating between a shambling trot and a fast walk. Allen Ring, his chin sunk in the upturned collar of his slicker, watched the drops fall from the brim of his Stetson and felt the bump of the shotgun under his coat.
He had seen little of the tally book, but sufficient to know that it would blow the lid off the very range war they were fearing. Knowing the Hazlitts, he knew they would bring fire and gunplay to every home even remotely connected with the death of their brother.
The horse slid down a steep bank and shambled across the wide wash. Suddenly, the distant roar that had been in his ears for some time sprang into consciousness and he jerked his head up. His horse snorted in alarm, and Ring stared, openmouthed, at the wall of water, towering all of ten feet high, that was rolling down the wash toward him.
With a shrill rebel yell he slapped the spurs to the claybank, and the startled horse turned loose with an astounded leap and hit the ground in a dead run. There was no time to slow for the bank of the wash, and the horse went up, slipped at the very brink, and started to fall back.
Ring hit the ground with both boots and scrambled over the brink, and even as the flood roared down upon them, he heaved on the bridle and the horse cleared the edge and stood trembling.
Swearing softly, Ring kicked the mud from his boots and mounted again. Leaving the raging torrent behind him, he rode on.
Thick blackness of night and heavy clouds lay upon the town when he sloped down the main street and headed the horse toward the barn. He swung down and handed the bridle to the handyman.
"Rub him down"... He said. "I'll be back."
He started for the doors and then stopped, staring at the three horses in neighboring stalls.
The liveryman noticed his glance and looked at him.
"The Hazlitts. They come in about an hour ago, ugly as sin."
Allen Ring stood wide legged, staring grimly out the door. There was a coolness inside him now that he recognized. He dried his hands carefully.
"Bilton in town?" He asked.
"Sure is. Playin' cards over to the Mazatzal Saloon."
"He wear Mex spurs? Big rowels?"
The man rubbed his jaw. "I don't remember. I don't know at all. You watch out"... He warned.
"Folks are on the prod."
Ring stepped out into the street and slogged through the mud to the edge of the boardwalk before the darkened general store. He kicked the mud from his boots and dried his hands again, after carefully unbuttoning his slicker.
Nobody would have a second chance after this. He knew well enough that his walking into the Mazatzal would precipitate an explosion.
Only, he wanted to light the fuse himself, in his own way.
He stood there in the darkness alone, thinking it over. They would all be there. It would be like tossing a match into a lot of fused dynamite.
He wished then that he was a better man with a gun than he was or that he had someone to side him in this, but he had always acted alone and would scarcely know how to act with anyone else.
He walked along the boardwalk with long strides, his boots making hard sounds under the (steady roar of the rain. He couldn't place that spur, that boot. Yet he had to. He had
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