Desert
Death-Song
Desert
Death-Song
A Collection of Western Stories
By
Louis L’Amour
Copyright © 2013 by Skyhorse Publishing
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-457-7
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Keep Travelin’, Rider
His Brother’s Debt
Dutchman’s Flat
Trap of Gold
Desert Death-Song
Riding for the Brand
Big Medicine
Man Riding West
McQueen of the Tumbling K
The Turkeyfeather Riders
KEEP TRAVELIN’, RIDER
CHAPTER ONE: Guns of Change
When Tack Gentry sighted the weather beaten buildings of the G Bar, he touched spurs to the buckskin and the horse broke into a fast canter that carried the cowhand down the trail and around into the ranch yard. He swung down.
“Hey!” he yelled happily, grinning. “Is that all the welcome I get?”
The door pushed open and a man stepped out on the worn porch. The man had a stubble of a beard and a drooping mustache. His blue eyes were small and narrow.
“Who are yuh?” he demanded. “And what do yuh want?”
“I’m Tack Gentry!” Tack said. “Where’s Uncle John?”
“I don’t know yuh,” the man said, “and I never heard of no Uncle John. I reckon yuh got onto the wrong spread, youngster.”
“Wrong spread?” Tack laughed. “Quit your funnin’! I helped build that house there, and built the corrals by my lonesome, while Uncle John was sick. Where is everybody?”
The man looked at him carefully, then lifted his eyes to a point beyond Tack. A voice spoke from behind the cowhand. “Reckon yuh been gone awhile, ain’t yuh?”
Gentry turned. The man behind him was short, stocky and blond. He had a wide, flat face, a small broken nose and cruel eyes.
“Gone? I reckon yes! I’ve been gone most of a year! Went north with a trail herd to Ellsworth, then took me a job as a segundo on a herd movin’ to Wyoming.”
Tack stared around, his eyes alert and curious. There was something wrong here, something very wrong. The neatness that had been typical of Uncle John Gentry was gone. The place looked run down, the porch was untidy, the door hung loose on its hinges, even the horses in the corral were different.
“Where’s Uncle John?” Tack demanded again. “Quit stallin’!” The blond man smiled, his lips parting over broken teeth and a hard, cynical light coming into his eyes. “If yuh mean John Gentry, who used to live on this place, he’s gone. He drawed on the wrong man and got himself killed.”
“What?” Tack’s stomach felt like he had been kicked. He stood there, staring. “He drew on somebody? Uncle John?”
Tack shook his head. “That’s impossible! John Gentry was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence against anybody or anything in his life! He never even wore a gun, never owned one!”
“I only know what they tell me,” the blond man said, “but we got work to do, and I reckon yuh better slope out of here. And,” he added grimly, “if yuh’re smart yuh’ll keep right on goin’, clean out of this country!”
“What do yuh mean?” Tack’s thoughts were in a turmoil trying to accustom himself to this change, wondering what could have happened, what was behind it.
“I mean yuh’ll find things considerably changed around here. If yuh decide not to leave,” he added, “yuh might ride into Sunbonnet and look up Van Hardin or Dick Olney and tell him I said to give yuh all yuh had comin’, tell ’em Soderman sent yuh.”
“Who’s Van Hardin?” Tack asked. The name was unfamiliar.
“Yuh been away all right!” Soderman acknowledged. “Or yuh’d know who Van Hardin is. He runs this country. He’s the ramrod, Hardin is. Olney’s sheriff.”
Tack Gentry rode away from his home ranch with his thoughts in confusion. Uncle John! Killed in a gunfight! Why, that was out of reason! The old man wouldn’t fight. He never had, and never would. And this Dick Olney was sheriff! What had become of Pete Liscomb? No election was due for another year, and Pete had been a good sheriff.
There was only one way to solve the problem and get the whole story, and that was to circle around and ride by the London ranch. Bill could give him the whole story, and besides, he wanted to see Betty. It had been a long time.
The six miles to the headquarters of the London ranch went by swiftly, yet as Tack rode, he scanned the grassy levels along the Maravillas. There were cattle enough, more than he had ever seen on the old G Bar, and all of them wearing the G Bar brand.
He reined in sharply. What the? . . . Why, if Uncle John was dead, the ranch belonged to him! But if that was so, who was Soderman? And what were they doing on his ranch?
Three men were loafing on the wide veranda of the London ranch house when Tack rode up. All their faces were unfamiliar. He glanced warily from one to the other.
“Where’s Bill London?” he asked.
“London?” The man in the wide brown hat shrugged. “Reckon he’s to home, over in Sunbonnet Pass. He ain’t never over here.”
“This is his ranch, isn’t it?” Tack demanded.
All three men seemed to tense. “His ranch?” The man in the brown hat shook his head. “Reckon yuh’re a stranger around here. This ranch belongs to Van Hardin. London ain’t got a ranch. Nothin’ but a few acres back against the creek over to Sunbonnet Pass. He and that girl of his live there. I reckon though,” he grinned suddenly, “she won’t be there much longer. Hear tell she’s goin’ to work in the Longhorn Dance Hall.”
“Betty London? In the Longhorn?” Tack exclaimed. “Don’t make me laugh, partner! Betty’s too nice a girl for that! She wouldn’t . . .”
“They got it advertised,” the brown hatted man said calmly. An hour later a very thoughtful Tack Gentry rode up the dusty street of Sunbonnet. In that hour of riding he had been doing a lot of thinking, and he was remembering what Soderman had said. He was to tell Hardin or Olney that Soderman had sent him to get all that was coming to him. Suddenly, that remark took on a new significance.
Tack swung down in front of the Longhorn. Emblazoned on the front of the saloon was a huge poster announcing that Betty London was the coming attraction, that she would sing and entertain at the Longhorn. Compressing his lips, Tack walked into the saloon.