Read Online The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online

was rushing him. The brown body loomed large and he could see sweat streaks on the man’s chest. He squeezed off his shot and saw the Indian stumble in midstride and then pitch over on his face.
    Isager pushed himself to his knees, then got up. The beach weaved slowly, sickeningly beneath him. He turned his head stiffly and looked toward Rodelo. The fallen man looked like a bundle of old clothes, but as Isager looked, the bundle moved. Rodelo uncoiled himself and got up. Blood covered his face from a cut on his cheek. He stared at his empty gun, then clumsily began feeding shells into the chambers.
    Across the wavering sand the two men stared at each other, then Rodelo laughed hoarsely. “You look like hell!” he said, grinning from his heat-blasted face.
    Isager’s brain seemed to spin queerly and he blinked. What was the matter with him? A pain bit suddenly at his side, and he clasped the pain with his hand. His fingers felt damp and he drew them away, staring stupidly at the blood dripping from his fingers.
    â€œYou copped one,” Rodelo said. “You’re hit.”
    Isager swayed. Suddenly he knew this was it, right here on this dead-white beach washed by an ugly weedy sea. It was no way for a cowhand to cash in his chips. “Beat it,” he said hoarsely. “There’s more coming.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œThat’s why they rushed. To get us an’ claim the reward. If they’d been alone they would have taken their time.” His knees felt buttery and queer. “There’s one good horse. Take the gold an’ beat it. I’m done in, so I’ll hold them off.”
    He went to his knees. “Only …” His voice trailed off and he waited, his eyes begging Rodelo to wait a minute longer, then he managed the words, “get some of that money to Tom Hopkins’s wife. He … he was that marshal. Funny thing, funny … Never meant to kill him. He came at me an’ it was just reflex … jus’ … just drew an’ shot.”
    â€œAll right,” Rodelo said, and he meant it. He turned and disappeared into the blinding light.
    Isager lay down behind the fallen horse. He slid the rifle from its scabbard and waited.
    Â 
    Sheriff Bill Garden and two Apache trackers found Isager a few hours later. Gunfire from the advance party of six Yaquis had led them to this desolate beach. The convict was curled up behind a dying horse, surrounded by bright brass shells ejected from his rifle. Two of the Apache horses were gone and only one of the horses ridden by the convicts was alive. He was standing head down on the hillside not far away.
    Horse tracks trailed away from the body of Isager, a faint trail toward the bluff to the south. Bill Garden glanced after them. The remaining scouts were still after the last man. He turned and looked down at Isager. “Lord a-mighty,” he said. “What a place to die!”
    Far off across the water there was a flash of white, a jib shaken out to catch the wind … a boat had left the fishing beds at Rocky Bay and was beating its way southward toward Guaymas.

Dutchman’s Flat
    The dust of Dutchman’s Flat had settled in a gray film upon their faces, and Neill could see the streaks made by the sweat on their cheeks and brows and knew his own must be the same. No man of them was smiling and they rode with their rifles in their hands, six grim and purposeful men upon the trail of a single rider.
    They were men shaped and tempered to the harsh ways of a harsh land, strong in their sense of justice, ruthless in their demand for punishment, relentless in pursuit. From the desert they had carved their homes, and from the desert they drew their courage and their code, and the desert knows no mercy.
    â€œWhere’s he headin’, you reckon?”
    â€œHome, mostly likely. He’ll need grub an’ a rifle. He’s been