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

“Don’t seem likely a boat would come in here.”
    Isager hefted his canteen, feeling its lightness with fear. “We’d better hunt for water.”
    South of them, the rocky bluff shouldered against the sky, dark and rugged. North the beach lay flat and empty … frightening in its emptiness. The horses stood, heads down and unmoving. The rocky bluff looked promising, but the salt on his lips frightened Isager. Behind them they heard a deep, gasping sigh and they turned. The paint packhorse was down.
    It had sunk to the sand and now it lay stretched out, the hide on its flanks hanging like loose cloth in the hollows of its ribs.
    Isager removed the gold from the horse, and with the gold off, it struggled to rise. Isager glanced at Rodelo, hesitant to use both hands to help the horse. “Go ahead,” Rodelo said, “help him.”
    Together they got the horse up, and then they turned south. The salty crust crunched and broke beneath their feet. Sometimes they sank to their ankles; the horses broke through at every step. They often stopped to rest and Isager glanced at Rodelo. “We better have a truce,” he said, his eyes shifting away, then back. “You couldn’t make it without me.”
    Rodelo’s lips thinned over his white teeth. “Don’t need you. You knew the desert. I know the sea.”
    â€œThe desert’s still with us,” Isager said. Suddenly the water in Rodelo’s canteen was more precious than gold. He was waiting for a chance to go for his gun.
    The white glare around them forced their eyes to thin slits, while soda dust settled over them in a thin cloak. They stared at each other, as wild and thin as the gaunt, skeletonlike horses, white and shadowy things that seemed to waver with unreality in the heat. The milky water, undrinkable, and taunting them, whispered secret obscenities along the blue-white beach. “There’ll be a fishing boat,” Isager said. “No reason to kill each other. Maybe there’s water beyond that bluff.”
    â€œThere’ll be no boat.” Rodelo stated it flatly. “This is the wrong bay.”
    Isager stared, blinking slowly. “Wrong bay?” he said stupidly.
    â€œLook!” Rodelo shouted harshly. “It’s too shallow! We’ve come to the wrong place!”
    Isager’s dry tongue fought for his lips. There was no hope then.
    â€œGive me your gun,” Rodelo said, “and I’ll take you there.”
    â€œSo you can kill me?” Isager drew back, his eyes cold and calculating.
    â€œI know where the bay is,” Rodelo said. “Give me your gun.”
    Isager stared. Was it a trick? How could he actually know?
    Suddenly, Rodelo shrugged. “Come on, then! I’ll take my chances on you!” He pointed toward the dark bluff. “Look! That’s a water sky. There’s water beyond that point. Another bay!”
    He took a step and a bullet kicked dust at his feet. He grabbed for his gun and whirled on Isager, but the gunfighter had already faced the hillside. Four Indians were coming down the hill, riding hard. As Rodelo turned, Isager stepped his feet apart and fired. An Indian’s horse stumbled and went down, throwing the rider head over heels.
    Rodelo dropped to one knee and shot under the belly of his horse. He saw an Indian drop and he fired again and missed. A bullet hit Isager and turned him half around. He staggered, and the half-dead horse lunged clumsily away. A hoof went through the crust and the horse fell heavily and lay panting, one white sliver of bone showing through the hide of the broken leg.
    Isager fell, pulled off balance by the fall of the horse, and Rodelo fired again and again. His gun muzzle wavered and the shots kicked up dust. Isager rolled over behind the downed horse. He knew from harsh experience that accuracy was more essential than speed. He steadied his gun barrel. The Indian who had been thrown