The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

daybreak, Tom Speke rode his shambling buckskin into the main street of Tucson. He rode past staked-out pigs, dozens of yapping dogs, a few casual, disinterested burros, and a few naked Mexican youngsters. He was a lean man of less than six feet, not long past thirty but seasoned by the desert, a man with dingy trousers, a buckskin jacket, a battered narrow-brimmed hat, and a lean-jawed look about him.
    He swung down at the Shoo Fly, and went into the restaurant. It was a long room of adobe, walls washed with yellow, a stamped earth floor, and tables of pine covered with cheap tablecloths. To Tom Speke, who had sat at a table four times in two years, the Shoo Fly represented the height of culture and gastronomic delight. He did not order—at the Shoo Fly one accepted what the day offered, in this case jerked beef, frijoles, tomatoes, and stewed prunes (there had recently been a series of Apache raids on trains bringing fresh fruit from Hermosillo) and coffee. All but the coffee and the prunes were liberally laced with chile colorados, and there was still some honey that had been brought from the Tia Juana ranch below the border.
    Tom Speke devoted himself to eating, but while he ate, he listened. The Shoo Fly was crowded, as always at mealtimes, and there was much talk. Turning to the kid who was clearing tables, he asked if there was any recent news of prospectors striking it rich in the area. The kid didn’t know, but a man up the table looked up and put down his fork.
    â€œFeller down to Congress Hall payin’ for drinks with dust. Says he made him a pile over on the Gila.”
    â€œBig feller? With blond hair?” A man spoke up from the end of the bar. “Seen him. Looks mighty like a feller from Santa Fe I run into once. They were huntin’ him for horse stealin’.”
    Tom Speke forked up the last piece of beef and chewed it thoughtfully. Then he wiped his plate with a slab of bread and disposed of it in the same way. He gulped coffee, then laid out his dollar and pushed back from the table. The description was that of Floren.
    The sun stopped him on the step, and he waited until his eyes adjusted themselves to the glare. Then he walked up the street to the Congress.
    Pausing on the step he eased the position of the Colt, then stepped inside and moved away from the door. Early as it was, the place was scattered with people. One game gave the appearance of having been on all night. Several men stood at the bar. One of these was a giant of a man in a stovepipe hat and a black coat. Speke knew him for Marcus Duffield, onetime town marshal and now postal inspector, but still the town’s leading exponent of gun-throwing.
    Speke glanced around. There was no sign of Ross, but Floren’s big blond head was visible. He was sitting in the poker game, and from the look of it, he was winning.
    Speke moved down the bar to Duffield’s side. He ordered a drink, then jerked his head at Duffield. “An’ one for Marcus, here.”
    Duffield glanced at him. “Goin’ to be some shootin’ here right sudden,” Speke said quietly. “I figured to tell you so’s you wouldn’t figure it was aimed at you.” He indicated Floren by a jerk of his head. “Feller there an’ his partner come into my camp half dead. I gave ’em grub an’ water. Second day they throwed down on me, tied me up, an’ stole my outfit, includin’ three pokes of gold.”
    â€œSeen the gold,” Duffield said. “Didn’t figure him for no miner.”
    He glanced over his shoulder. “Better wait’ll he finishes this hand. He’s holdin’ four of a kind.”
    Speke lifted his glass and Duffield acknowledged it. They drank, and Tom Speke turned around and then moved down the bar. He waited there, watching the game, his eyes cold and emotionless. Floren raked in the pot on his four queens and started to stack the money.
    And then he looked up and