Louis L'Amour - The Lonely Men

They planted the other one, wrapped in his blankets, out on Boot Hill.

By noontime I had most of what I would need, but was still shy a horse. Dropping in at the Shoo-Fly I figured to have myself a bite of grub, and maybe I could find somebody with a horse to spare.

So I shaved myself with a broken triangle of glass for a mirror, stuck in the fork of a mesquite tree, while Rocca slept with his head on his saddle close by.

We were a mite out of town among some rocks and mesquite, and we'd been there a while when I heard somebody singing "Oh, Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie," and Rocca pushed his hat back off his eyes. "Don't shoot," he said, grinning at me.

"That's John J."

And it was. Battles came up through the brush and looked us over, and we told him what the score was.

"Where's Spanish?" he wanted to know, and Rocca told him.

"He found himself a gal down yonder. Her name is Conchita, and if she gets mad at him the Apaches will be a relief. But don't you worry none about Spanish.

When the time comes he'll fork his saddle and come with us."

When I'd shaved we talked things over a mite and Rocca headed for Mexican town to roust out Spanish Murphy, whilst Battles went back into the brush to keep out of sight. Somehow or other, neither of us thought to tell him about the Hadden outfit.

The Shoo-Fly was crowded when I came in, but I tamed some heads. I don't know if it was the gun battle the night before or the whiskey I'd used for shave lotion, but they looked me over some. I'd been sort of sidestepping the marshal, not wanting to be ordered out of town yet, and not wanting trouble, if he was so inclined. When it came to eating, I was always a good feeder and always ready to set up and partake. Likely this would be the last woman-cooked food I'd have for a while, and even any hot meals I'd cook myself would be almighty scarce on that trek down into Sonora and over into Chihuahua. When a man is fighting shy of Apaches he doesn't go around sending up smoke.

Sitting there in the Shoo-Fly, which was not exactly elegant, though the best there was around, a body might have an idea folks would step aside for a body who'd killed his man in a gun battle. No such thing.

Right there in that room there were men like William S. Oury, who had fought through the Texas war for independence, had been a Texas Ranger, and had engaged in many a bloody duel with Apaches and border characters. Most of the men sitting around in their broadcloth suits were men who had engaged in their share of Indian fights, or wars of one kind or another. And they were good citizens -- lawyers, mining men, storekeepers and the like.

No sooner had I begun to eat than the door opened and Laura came in. She was in white, and she looked pale and frail. She wore the kind of gloves with no fingers in them that made no sense to me. And she carried a parasol, as most women did.

She stood a moment, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the glare, and then crossed to my table. I got up and seated her, then sat down.

Folks turned to look at her, they were almighty curious, her being such a pretty woman and all, and not many of them knowing we were kin.

"Tell," she said, "I heard you were looking for a horse. Is that true?"

"Yes, ma'am, it is. Mine was killed out yonder. I've got to find a saddle horse and at least one pack horse. Seems Apache raids have cut down the supply, and the Army has been buying saddle stock, too."

"Why didn't you tell me? I can get you some horses. In fact, I have just the horse for you."

"It would help," I admitted. "I've got my outfit together."

She took the coffee Mrs. Wallen brought to the table, and then said, "I hear you had some trouble."

"It wasn't my trouble. They were hunting a man I know, and when they couldn't find him they chose me -- that is, me and Rocca, one of the men I rode to town with."

She said no more about it, and I wasn't anxious to talk of it. We talked a while about the trip, and then she told me where to go to see the horses. "The one I want you to ride," she suggested, "is the big black with the diamond blaze on his hip."

Now, one horse I was not hunting was a big black with a diamond on his hip. Any kind of horse would help, but a black horse was almost as bad as a white one in that country. What I preferred was a roan, a buckskin, or a dun or grulla. I wanted a horse whose color would fade into the country, not one that would stand out like a red nose at a teetotal picnic. Of course, there were patches of black rock, shadows, and the like, and a black horse was some better than a white one which would catch the sun and could be seen for miles. However, this was no time to argue.

"All right," I said, and then I added, "If we get the horses I can leave tomorrow."

She talked of Tucson and its discomforts, and how she wished to be back in Santa Fe -- or in Washington, she added.

"I like Washington," I said.

She seemed surprised, and said, "You have been there?"

"Yes, ma'am. I was in the Army of the Potomac for a while. I was around Washington quite a bit."

That was a long time ago, and I'd been a boy then, freshly joined up with the Union army.

When she was gone I lingered over coffee, thinking out that trail to the south, trying to foresee the problems that might arise. It wasn't in me to go into things blind, and there was a whole lot about this that made me kind of uneasy, but there was nothing I could pin down.

Mrs. Wallen came over. "Are you related to Laura Sackett?"

"She's my sister-in-law."

"I wondered ... your names being the same, and all." She still hesitated, then sat down opposite me. "We don't see many women traveling alone in this country."

"Her father died ... out in California," I said. "He was all alone out there, and nobody to see to him. Orrin -- he's my brother -- had to stay in Washington."

She sat there a while without saying any more, and then got up and left. I couldn't figure out why she sat down to talk to me. It seemed as if she was going to tell me something -- maybe something about the Army or the Apaches.

The black horse was a good one, all right. And that diamond-shaped blaze on his hip and one white stocking was all that kept him from being solid black. He was a whole lot more horse than I expected to find. The two pack horses were nondescript mustangs, but they looked tough.

They were in a barn back of an adobe, and the man who had the care of them squatted on his heels and watched me studying the horses.

"You're takin' a lot of care, mister," he said sourly, "when you got no choice."

He spat out the straw he'd been chewing. "Take 'em or leave 'em. I got no more time to spare. The lady paid for 'em. All you got to do is saddle up and ride."

He didn't like me and I didn't like him, so I taken the horses and got away. I rode them back into the brush where Rocca was waiting and where my gear was cached.

Rocca had rustled a horse from somewhere in Mex town, so we were ready to go.

"You got anything holdin' you?" I asked him.

"Not so's you'd notice. Spanish is out in the brush with John J. They'll meet us south of here."

So we mounted up and rode out of there, paying no mind to anything else. Down country about four miles Spanish rode up to us, and then John J. Battles followed.

"You boys are taking a wild chance," I said. "You got no stake in this."

"Shut up," Spanish said. "You save your breath to cool your porridge."

"I never been to the Sierra Madres," John J. said. "Any place I ain't been I got to see."

We put up some dust and headed south, with me riding up front. The trail was used ... there was always some riding down toward Kitchen's ranch.

You might think that on a traveled trail you'd be safe, but there was nowhere in this corner of Arizona where a body was safe, one moment to the next. Pete Kitchen had men on watch all hours of the day, and everybody went armed, expecting trouble, so after a while the Apaches kind of fought shy of the Kitchen outfit.