The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 by Louis L’Amour Page A

himself, his eyes turning ugly. “Figured I’d turn an’ you’d shoot me? Don’t try nothin’ like that.”
    Rodelo was on the slope behind and slightly above Otteson and about thirty yards back from him. His face was ghastly and red, his prison jeans were torn from cacti and rocks, but he clutched a businesslike .44 in his fist. He lifted it and took careful sight, shifting his feet as he did so. A rock rolled under his foot.
    Otteson whipped around, quick as a cat. His rifle blasted from the hip and he missed. He never fired again. He went down, clawing at the rocks and gravel on which he had fallen, blood staining their pink to deep crimson. Isager held his smoking Colt and looked up the slope at Rodelo.
    The younger man had recovered his balance and they stared at each other over their guns.
    â€œYou might miss,” Isager said. “I never do.”
    â€œWhy don’t you shoot, then?”
    â€œI want company. Two can make it easier than one. Much easier than three.”
    â€œThen why didn’t you let him kill me?”
    â€œBecause he wanted to kill me himself. You need me. I know the desert and you don’t.”
    Rodelo came over the rocks, stepping carefully. “All right,” he said. “Gimme water.”
    Isager holstered his gun. “There’s the
tinaja
. Drink an’ we’ll push on.” He looked at Rodelo with curious respect. “How’d you catch up so fast?”
    â€œYou rode around things. I walked straight to your dust. You rested. I couldn’t afford to.”
    â€œGood man.” Isager mounted up. Nothing was said about what happened. “If we play it smart now, we’ll leave each other alone. Together we can make it through.”
    One thing they had not forgotten. The knowledge of the
tinajas
lay dead in the skull of Otteson.
    â€œWe’ll have to make our water last. It won’t be far now. That’s Pinacate.”
    The mountain bulked before them now, and by the time the stars were out it loomed huge on the horizon. They slept that night and when they awakened, Rodelo looked around at Isager. His cheekbones were slashes of red from the sun, his eyes deep sunken. Stubble of beard covered his cheeks and his shirt was stiff with sweat and dust. “I smell the sea,” he said, low-voiced. “I can smell the sea.”
    When they started on once more, they kept the mountain between them and the sun, saving themselves from the heat. Once they found a water hole but the mud was cracked and dry in the bottom. Isager’s brown face was shadowed with red, Otteson’s hat pulled low over his cold eyes.
    The horses were gaunt and beaten. Several times the men dismounted and led the horses to spare them. Their hunger was a gnawing, living thing within them, and their spare canteens were dry, their own very low. The eyes of the men were never still, searching for water. Yet it was not enough to look. One had to know. In the desert water may be within a few feet and give no indication of its presence. And then, from the top of a rise, they saw the gulf !
    â€œThere it is.” Rodelo stared, hollow-eyed. “Now for that bay.”
    A squarish flat hill was before them. They circled and saw the gulf due west of it. “S’pose that’s it?” Isager asked doubtfully.
    â€œYou can see for yourself that it’s a big bay.” The tension between them was back: they were watching each other out of the corners of their eyes again.
    Isager stood in his stirrups and looked south. Land stretched away until it ended in a point. There was a hint of sea in that direction but he was not sure. “All right,” he said, “but I don’t see any boats.”
    The plain sloping down to the bay was white with soda and salt. Long sand spits extended into the milky blue water. Here and there patches showed above the surface. “Looks mighty shallow,” Rodelo said doubtfully.