The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 by Louis L’Amour

gun, and for a frozen, awful instant, Jim saw his future facing him, and then his own hand went down and he palmed his gun in a flashing, lightning draw that rapped out two shots. The Mexican, who had reached first, barely got his gun clear before he was dead. He died on his feet and then fell.
    In a haze of powder smoke and anguish, Jim Gary had wheeled and strode from the door, and behind him lay a dead and awful silence. It was not until two days later that he knew who and what he had killed.
    The lithe-bodied Mexican had been Miguel Sonoma, and he had been a legend along the border. A tough, dangerous man with a reputation as a killer.
    Two nights later, a band of outlaws from over the border rode down upon Gary’s little spread to avenge their former leader, and two of them died in the first blast of gunfire, a matter of handguns at point-blank range.
    From the shelter of his cabin, Gary fought them off for three days before the smoke from his burning barn attracted help. When the help arrived, Jim Gary was a man with a name. Five dead men lay on the ground around the ranch yard and in the desert nearby. The wounded had been carried away. And the following morning, Jim turned his ranch over to the bank to sell and lit a shuck—away from Texas.
    Of this, Mart Ray knew nothing. Half of Texas and all of New Mexico, or most of it, would lie behind him when Jim reached the banks of Salt Creek. Mart Ray was ramrodding the Double A, and he would have a job for him.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    Jim Gary turned the horse and rode slowly back along the side of the herd. The cattle had taken their midnight stretch and after standing around a bit, were lying down once more. The rain was falling, but softly, and Gary let the gray take his own time in skirting the herd.
    The night was pitch dark. Only the horns of the cattle glistened with rain, and their bodies were darker blobs in the blackness of the night. Once, drawing up near the willows along the stream, Jim thought he detected a vague sound. He waited a moment, listening. On such a night nobody would be abroad who could help it, and it was unlikely that a mountain lion would be on the prowl, although possible.
    He started on again, yet now his senses were alert, and his hand slid under his slicker and touched the butt of a .44. He was almost at the far end of the small herd when a sudden flash of lightning revealed the hillside across the narrow valley.
    Stark and clear, glistening with rain, sat a horseman! He was standing in his stirrups, and seemed amazingly tall, and in the glare of the flash, his face was stark white, like the face of a fleshless skull!
    Startled, Gary grunted and slid his gun into his hand, but all was darkness again, and listen as he could, he heard no further sound. When the lightning flashed again, the hillside was empty and still. Uneasily, he caught himself staring back over his shoulder into the darkness, and he watched his horse. The gray was standing, head up and ears erect, staring off toward the darkness near the hill. Riding warily, Gary started in that direction, but when he got there, he found nothing.
    It was almost daylight when he rode up to the fire which he had kept up throughout the night, and swinging down, he awakened Dirksen. The man sat up, startled. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You forget to call me?”
    Jim grinned at him. “Just figured I was already up an’ a good cook needed his sleep.”
    Jeeter stared at him. “You mean you rode for me? Say, you’re all right!”
    â€œForget it!” Gary stretched. “I had a quiet night, mostly.”
    Red Slagle was sitting up, awakened by their talk. “What do you mean—mostly?”
    Jim hesitated, feeling puzzled. “Why, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether I saw anything or not, but I sure thought I did. Anyway, it had me scared.”
    â€œWhat was it?” Slagle was pulling on his pants, but his eyes