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

livin’ on the old Sorenson place.”
    Kimmel spat. “He’s welcome to it. That place starved out four men I know of.” He stared at the hoof tracks ahead. “He’s got a good horse.”
    â€œBig buckskin. Reckon we’ll catch him, Hardin?”
    â€œSure. Not this side of his place, though. There ain’t no shortcuts we can take to head him off, and he’s pointin’ for home straight as a horse can travel.”
    â€œAin’t tryin’ to cover his trail none.”
    â€œNo use tryin’.” Hardin squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun.
    â€œHe knows we figure he’ll head for his ranch.”
    â€œHe’s no tenderfoot.” Kesney expressed the thought that had been dawning upon them all in the last two hours. “He knows how to save a horse, an’ he knows a trail.”
    They rode on in near silence. Hardin scratched his unshaven jaw. The dust lifted from the hooves of the horses as they weaved their way through the catclaw and mesquite. It was a parched and sun-baked land, with only dancing heat waves and the blue distance of the mountains to draw them on. The trail they followed led straight as a man could ride across the country. Only at draws or nests of rocks did it swerve, where they noticed the rider always gave his horse the best of it.
    No rider of the desert must see a man to know him, for it is enough to follow his trail. In these things are the ways of a man made plain, his kindness or cruelty, his ignorance or cunning, his strength and his weakness. There are indications that cannot escape a man who has followed trails, and in the two hours since they had ridden out of Freedom the six had already learned much of the man they followed. And they would learn more.
    â€œWhat started it?”
    The words sounded empty and alone in the vast stillness of the basin.
    Â 
    Hardin turned his head slightly so the words could drift back. It was the manner of a man who rides much in the wind or rain. He shifted the rifle to his left hand and wiped his sweaty right palm on his coarse pants leg.
    â€œSome loose talk. He was in the Bon Ton buyin’ grub an’ such. Johnny said somethin’ at which he took offense an’ they had some words. Johnny was wearin’ a gun, but this Lock wasn’t, so he gets him a gun an’ goes over to the Longhorn.
    â€œHe pushes open the door an’ shoots Johnny twice through the body. In the back.” Hardin spat. “He fired a third shot, but that missed Johnny and busted a bottle of whiskey.”
    There was a moment’s silence while they digested this, and then Neill looked up.
    â€œWe lynchin’ him for the killin’ or bustin’ the whiskey?”
    It was a good question, but drew no reply. The dignity of the five other riders was not to be touched by humor. They were riders on a mission. Neill let his eyes drift over the dusty copper of the desert. He had no liking for the idea of lynching any man, and he did not know the squatter from the Sorenson place. Living there should be punishment enough for any man. Besides—
    â€œWho saw the shooting?” he asked.
    â€œNobody seen it, actually. Only he never gave Johnny a fair shake. Sam was behind the bar, but he was down to the other end and it happened too fast.”
    â€œWhat’s his name? Somebody call him Lock?” Neill asked. There was something incongruous in lynching a man whose name you did not know. He shifted in the saddle, squinting his eyes toward the distant lakes dancing in the mirage of heat waves.
    â€œWhat’s it matter? Lock, his name is. Chat Lock.”
    â€œFunny name.”
    The comment drew no response. The dust was thicker now and Neill pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth. His eyes were drawn back to the distant blue of the lakes. They were enticingly cool and beautiful, lying across the way ahead and in the basin off to the right. This was the mirage