Kiowa Trail (1964) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Louis L'amour
happened.
Getting up into the saddle, I rode out toward the herd.
Tom saw me, and came riding my way. He was over six feet - as tall as I was, in fact, and he weighed only a bit less. Seeing him come toward me, I felt a sharp pang of regret for the son I'd never have. Sure, I was only thirty-five, but there was only one woman I wanted, and she was the one I could not have.
"Hi, Conn!" He swung his horse alongside mine. "Can't somebody else take over? I want to go to town."
"I can't let you go, Tom."
His face hardened a little. "What's the matter? Are you afraid of John Blake?"
The minute he said it, he was sorry. I could see it in his eyes, but I felt that old tightness inside of me at the word. It was something you did not say to a gun-carrying man in those days, but I was old enough to carry it off ... or was I?
"I'm not afraid of him, Tom, and you know damned well I'm not. But if you go north of the street tonight somebody's going to get killed."
"I'm not afraid!"
"I didn't say you were. Nor did I say it would be you who would get killed." Words were never my way, and I wasn't handy with them. Somehow I could never dab a loop on the right phrase, though it wasn't as if I hadn't mingled with folks, and hadn't known how to talk.
"Kid, if you go north of the street tonight," I said, "all hell's going to break loose. Believe me, McDonald won't stand for it."
"Aw, Conn! I can slip in there, see that girl, and get away before anybody knows it!"
"She doesn't really want to see you, Tom."
He didn't believe it, of course, and I should have known he wouldn't. She was the girl he wanted, and the idea that she might not want to seehim was unthinkable. It was simply not to be believed.
So I laid it on the line to him, talking as reasonably as I could, and told him what John Blake had said.
"I don't believe it."
"Don't say that where John Blake can hear you."
"The hell with him! Everybody's always talking about John Blake! What's he got, four hands or something?"
"He doesn't need four hands, Tom. Take it from me."
He seemed to be seeing me for the first time, and I knew, suddenly, that whatever place I'd had in the respect of Tom Lundy, I had just lost it.
Death is only a word when you are his age; and much as Tom had seen, he had never seen good men die in a dusty street over a trifle. He had fought in Indian battles, but he had never actually seen a gun battle involving someone he knew and liked.
John Blake was a good man doing a necessary job, and I did not want to kill John Blake. Neither did I want to risk being killed over something like this.
"All right," he said impatiently, "you've told me."
"Don't go, Tom. Don't even think of going."
"You think I'm scared?"
There it was again. At his age it meant so much to prove one wasn't scared. I knew how he felt, because it had not been too long since I had known the same thoughts. And to some extent, I still did. "It isn't only you, Tom. It's the outfit."
"Hell, Conn, we could take this town apart. The Tumbling B could rope and hog-tie this town."
"Tom, you see that man with the beard, the one sweeping off the walk? That's George Darrough. In two years of buffalo hunting he killed over two thousand buffalo. During that time he had seven Indian fights, and before that he fought through the war. The man who is just now walking up to him is one of the finest rifle shots in the West. It's men like them you'd have to fight."
Tom Lundy had nothing to say to that, but his jaw set stubbornly, and I knew what he was thinking. He was proud of our outfit, and we had just brought a herd through rough country, fighting Indians all the way, and shorthanded the last part of it. He did not like to admit that anything was impossible for the Tumbling B.
Also, he feared Linda McDonald would believe him a loud-mouth if he failed to call. He had no way of judging the buried animosities that lay hidden between the trail crew and the people of the town.
"I don't want to start a
Getting up into the saddle, I rode out toward the herd.
Tom saw me, and came riding my way. He was over six feet - as tall as I was, in fact, and he weighed only a bit less. Seeing him come toward me, I felt a sharp pang of regret for the son I'd never have. Sure, I was only thirty-five, but there was only one woman I wanted, and she was the one I could not have.
"Hi, Conn!" He swung his horse alongside mine. "Can't somebody else take over? I want to go to town."
"I can't let you go, Tom."
His face hardened a little. "What's the matter? Are you afraid of John Blake?"
The minute he said it, he was sorry. I could see it in his eyes, but I felt that old tightness inside of me at the word. It was something you did not say to a gun-carrying man in those days, but I was old enough to carry it off ... or was I?
"I'm not afraid of him, Tom, and you know damned well I'm not. But if you go north of the street tonight somebody's going to get killed."
"I'm not afraid!"
"I didn't say you were. Nor did I say it would be you who would get killed." Words were never my way, and I wasn't handy with them. Somehow I could never dab a loop on the right phrase, though it wasn't as if I hadn't mingled with folks, and hadn't known how to talk.
"Kid, if you go north of the street tonight," I said, "all hell's going to break loose. Believe me, McDonald won't stand for it."
"Aw, Conn! I can slip in there, see that girl, and get away before anybody knows it!"
"She doesn't really want to see you, Tom."
He didn't believe it, of course, and I should have known he wouldn't. She was the girl he wanted, and the idea that she might not want to seehim was unthinkable. It was simply not to be believed.
So I laid it on the line to him, talking as reasonably as I could, and told him what John Blake had said.
"I don't believe it."
"Don't say that where John Blake can hear you."
"The hell with him! Everybody's always talking about John Blake! What's he got, four hands or something?"
"He doesn't need four hands, Tom. Take it from me."
He seemed to be seeing me for the first time, and I knew, suddenly, that whatever place I'd had in the respect of Tom Lundy, I had just lost it.
Death is only a word when you are his age; and much as Tom had seen, he had never seen good men die in a dusty street over a trifle. He had fought in Indian battles, but he had never actually seen a gun battle involving someone he knew and liked.
John Blake was a good man doing a necessary job, and I did not want to kill John Blake. Neither did I want to risk being killed over something like this.
"All right," he said impatiently, "you've told me."
"Don't go, Tom. Don't even think of going."
"You think I'm scared?"
There it was again. At his age it meant so much to prove one wasn't scared. I knew how he felt, because it had not been too long since I had known the same thoughts. And to some extent, I still did. "It isn't only you, Tom. It's the outfit."
"Hell, Conn, we could take this town apart. The Tumbling B could rope and hog-tie this town."
"Tom, you see that man with the beard, the one sweeping off the walk? That's George Darrough. In two years of buffalo hunting he killed over two thousand buffalo. During that time he had seven Indian fights, and before that he fought through the war. The man who is just now walking up to him is one of the finest rifle shots in the West. It's men like them you'd have to fight."
Tom Lundy had nothing to say to that, but his jaw set stubbornly, and I knew what he was thinking. He was proud of our outfit, and we had just brought a herd through rough country, fighting Indians all the way, and shorthanded the last part of it. He did not like to admit that anything was impossible for the Tumbling B.
Also, he feared Linda McDonald would believe him a loud-mouth if he failed to call. He had no way of judging the buried animosities that lay hidden between the trail crew and the people of the town.
"I don't want to start a
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