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

saw Speke.
    He started to move, then stopped. His eyes stared, his face went sickly yellow.
    A card player noticed his face, took a quick look at Speke, then carefully drew back from the table. The others followed suit.
    â€œYou won that with my money, Floren,” Speke said carefully. “Just leave it lay.”
    Floren took a quick look around. His big hands rested on the arms of his chair, only inches from his gun. One of the players started to interrupt, but Duffield’s bold black eyes pinned the man to the spot. “His show,” Duffield said. “That gent’s a thief.”
    Floren touched his lips with his tongue. “Now, look,” he said, “I—”
    â€œAin’t aimin’ to kill you,” Speke said conversationally, “nor Ross. You stole my outfit an’ left me for dead, but all I want is my money an’ my outfit. Get up easy an’ empty your pockets.”
    Floren looked at the money, and then at Speke. Suddenly his face seemed to set, and an ugly look flared in his eyes. He started to rise. “I’ll be double d—!” His hand dropped to his gun.
    Nobody had seen Ross come in the door. He took one quick look, drew, and fired. Even as Speke thumbed back the hammer, he was struck from behind. He staggered, then fell forward.
    Floren stood, his unfired gun in his hand, and looked down at Speke. Ross held the room covered. Floren lifted the muzzle of his gun toward the fallen man.
    â€œDon’t do that,” Duffield said, “or you’ll have to kill every man in this room.”
    Floren looked up at him, and hesitated.
    â€œDon’t be a fool,” Ross said, “pick up your money and let’s go.”
    Â 
    It was two weeks before Speke could leave his bed, despite excellent care by Semig, a Viennese doctor attached to the Army. It was a month before he could ride.
    Duffield watched him mount the buckskin. “Next time don’t talk,” he advised. “Shoot!”
    Tom Speke picked up the trail of Floren and Ross on the Hassayampa and followed them into Camp Date Creek. Captain Dwyer of the Fifth Cavalry listened to Speke’s description, then nodded. “They were here. I ordered them out. Ross was known to have sold liquor to the Apaches near Camp Grant. I couldn’t have them around.”
    Swapping the weary buckskin for a zebra dun mustang, Speke returned to the trail.
    At Dripping Springs Speke drew up and swung down. Cherokee Townsend came from his cabin with a whoop of pleasure. The two had once traveled together across New Mexico. In reply to his questions, Townsend nodded. “ ’Bout two weeks back,” he said. “Didn’t take to ’em much. Big fellow is ridin’ a bay with three white stockings. The other one an appaloosa with a splash of white on his right shoulder. They headed for Prescott.”
    Townsend was, he said, staying on. “Watch out for ’Paches,” he said. “They are out an’ about. I’ve buried twenty-seven of them right on this place.”
    Speke rode on, sparing his horse but holding to the pace. He saw much Indian sign.
    In Prescott the two had remained more than a week. They had left town headed west. Everywhere he was warned of Indians. The Apaches were out, and so were the Hualapais and Mohaves. There were rumors of an impending outbreak at Date Creek, and General Crook was going down to investigate.
    Neither Floren nor Ross was a man of long experience in the West. During their time in his camp, before they had robbed him, he had seen that. They were men who had come west from Bald Knob, Missouri. Tough men and dangerous, but not desert-wise.
    On the second day out of Prescott, Speke found two Indian ponies. Badly used, they had obviously been released by Indians who had gone on with fresher, stronger horses. Speke caught up the two ponies and led them along with him, an idea forming in his brain.
    On the third day he