Read Online the Outlaws Of Mesquite (Ss) (1990) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis L'amour
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and a devil. There's something in that horse that ain't right."
"Like some men I know," John agreed. "There's killers in all sorts of critters. Just got a streak of meanness an' devil in "em." He hitched up his pants. "Well, luck to you, son.
I'll be amblin"."
Marty Mahan stared after the old man, his brow furrowed. He had never seen him around before.
The memory of Peg's face cut him like a knife. She believed him a coward. ... Well, maybe he was! He walked over to Jeff Alien, chairman of the rodeo committee.
"Jeff, I'm withdrawin' from the bronc ridin'. I won't ride that Ghost Maker."
Alien shifted his cigar in his jaws. "Heard you didn't aim to. You say he's a killer?"
"He sure is." Briefly, Marty related his own experiences with the horse. "Personally, I think you should take him out of the lists."
Jeff Alien shook his head. His cold blue eyes showed disdain. "Not a chance! Just because you're afraid to tackle him don't mean others won't!
Stoper has been around here, beggin' for him!"
Marty saw nothing of Peg Graham, nor of her father. Alone, he waited by the chutes for the calf roping, which was the first event in which he was entered. None of the rodeo hands stopped near him, nor did the contestants. Bitterly, his heart heavy in his chest, he watched them and watched the crowd. Once, over beyond the corral he saw Peg Graham. She was with Yannell Stoper.
Stoper opened in the calf roping and made a quick chase, a clean catch, and a fast tie. It was good time. Red Carver and Bent Wells fell a little short. Marty Mahan's black was a darting flash when the calf left the pens. He swept down his rope streaking like a thrown lance. The catch was perfect and he hit the ground almost as the rope tightened. He dropped his calf, made his tie, and straightened to his feet, his hands in the air.
"Folks!" Roberts boomed. "That's mighty fast time! Marty Mahan, internationally famous rodeo star, makes his tie in eleven and two-tenths seconds!"
Three-tenths of a second better than Stoper.
Marty turned, amid cheers, toward his black horse, and then somebody-and away down within him Marty was sure it was Stoper-yelled:
"Where's the Ghost Maker? Get Ghost Maker!"
The crowd took it up, and as Marty cantered from the arena his ears rang with the taunting word.
"Get Ghost Maker! Let him ride Ghost Maker! Yellow!"
White-faced, he dropped to the ground. Old John looked up at him.
"Hard to take, ain't it, boy?"
Mahan did not reply, but his face was pale and set. Yannell Stoper came around the corral, several riders with him.
"There's the hero! Wants milk-wagon horses!"
Marty turned sharply. "That will be enough of that!" he snapped.
Yannell halted, astonished. Then his eyes narrowed. "Why, you yeller-bellied, white-livered son-to "
They started for each other, fists clenched. The loudspeaker boomed out.
"Stoper! Ready for steer wrestling! Stoper! On your horse!"
With a curse the big tawny-headed man turned.
"Saved you from a beatin'!" he sneered. "You get the breaks!"
"See me later, then!" Marty flashed back at him. "Anywhere! Any time!"
Grimly, he walked away. Behind him he heard the roar of the crowd as Yannell went after his steer. For a minute Marty Mahan stood still, listening to that roar behind him. Soon he would be going out there, facing that crowd again, and they would taunt and boo again. It was no use. ... Why bother? He might as well quit now!
Then another thought came and he stopped in midstride. Run? Like the devil he would! He'd go back there and make them eat their taunts. Every word! He wheeled and walked back. When the time came for him to go out he went like a demon, flashing with speed. He took his steer down faster than ever before in his life, and as the loudspeaker boomed out his time, he swung into the saddle.
Taunts and jeers burst from the stands, but this time instead of riding out, he rode over before the stands and sat there, his hat lifted in salute. As the yells, boos, and hisses swept
"Like some men I know," John agreed. "There's killers in all sorts of critters. Just got a streak of meanness an' devil in "em." He hitched up his pants. "Well, luck to you, son.
I'll be amblin"."
Marty Mahan stared after the old man, his brow furrowed. He had never seen him around before.
The memory of Peg's face cut him like a knife. She believed him a coward. ... Well, maybe he was! He walked over to Jeff Alien, chairman of the rodeo committee.
"Jeff, I'm withdrawin' from the bronc ridin'. I won't ride that Ghost Maker."
Alien shifted his cigar in his jaws. "Heard you didn't aim to. You say he's a killer?"
"He sure is." Briefly, Marty related his own experiences with the horse. "Personally, I think you should take him out of the lists."
Jeff Alien shook his head. His cold blue eyes showed disdain. "Not a chance! Just because you're afraid to tackle him don't mean others won't!
Stoper has been around here, beggin' for him!"
Marty saw nothing of Peg Graham, nor of her father. Alone, he waited by the chutes for the calf roping, which was the first event in which he was entered. None of the rodeo hands stopped near him, nor did the contestants. Bitterly, his heart heavy in his chest, he watched them and watched the crowd. Once, over beyond the corral he saw Peg Graham. She was with Yannell Stoper.
Stoper opened in the calf roping and made a quick chase, a clean catch, and a fast tie. It was good time. Red Carver and Bent Wells fell a little short. Marty Mahan's black was a darting flash when the calf left the pens. He swept down his rope streaking like a thrown lance. The catch was perfect and he hit the ground almost as the rope tightened. He dropped his calf, made his tie, and straightened to his feet, his hands in the air.
"Folks!" Roberts boomed. "That's mighty fast time! Marty Mahan, internationally famous rodeo star, makes his tie in eleven and two-tenths seconds!"
Three-tenths of a second better than Stoper.
Marty turned, amid cheers, toward his black horse, and then somebody-and away down within him Marty was sure it was Stoper-yelled:
"Where's the Ghost Maker? Get Ghost Maker!"
The crowd took it up, and as Marty cantered from the arena his ears rang with the taunting word.
"Get Ghost Maker! Let him ride Ghost Maker! Yellow!"
White-faced, he dropped to the ground. Old John looked up at him.
"Hard to take, ain't it, boy?"
Mahan did not reply, but his face was pale and set. Yannell Stoper came around the corral, several riders with him.
"There's the hero! Wants milk-wagon horses!"
Marty turned sharply. "That will be enough of that!" he snapped.
Yannell halted, astonished. Then his eyes narrowed. "Why, you yeller-bellied, white-livered son-to "
They started for each other, fists clenched. The loudspeaker boomed out.
"Stoper! Ready for steer wrestling! Stoper! On your horse!"
With a curse the big tawny-headed man turned.
"Saved you from a beatin'!" he sneered. "You get the breaks!"
"See me later, then!" Marty flashed back at him. "Anywhere! Any time!"
Grimly, he walked away. Behind him he heard the roar of the crowd as Yannell went after his steer. For a minute Marty Mahan stood still, listening to that roar behind him. Soon he would be going out there, facing that crowd again, and they would taunt and boo again. It was no use. ... Why bother? He might as well quit now!
Then another thought came and he stopped in midstride. Run? Like the devil he would! He'd go back there and make them eat their taunts. Every word! He wheeled and walked back. When the time came for him to go out he went like a demon, flashing with speed. He took his steer down faster than ever before in his life, and as the loudspeaker boomed out his time, he swung into the saddle.
Taunts and jeers burst from the stands, but this time instead of riding out, he rode over before the stands and sat there, his hat lifted in salute. As the yells, boos, and hisses swept
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