Kiowa Trail (1964) Read Online Free
Author: Louis L'amour
here, and when shooting started there was no telling who might get hurt.
Out on the street, I stood for a minute in the sunlight. There was only one thing to it, of course. I'd have to pull the crew out of town. We'd have to move the herd.
Kate was at the hotel when I walked in, and I knew she had heard something. We went to a quiet corner of the big, almost empty lobby and sat down.
"What did he say?"
"No give to him, Kate, but I see his point. He doesn't dare open the door even a crack." And then I told her what John Blake had said about Linda McDonald. "It doesn't make sense to me, Kate. Why would a girl do a thing like that?"
Kate was silent, and I waited; for Kate, despite all her surface hardness, was an understanding woman with a lot of savvy where people were concerned.
"She may hate men ... and she may love her father."
"I don't get you."
"Sometimes, often without knowing it, a girl measures all men by her father. She may enjoy seeing him run them off, and to her it may be a way of continually proving her father's superiority."
"Kate, how do we stand with Hardeman?"
"He's offered twenty-two dollars a head, but I think he'll go to twenty-five."
"Take it, Kate. Let's get out of here." She looked at me quickly. "Is it that bad?"
"I've told him I'd back Tom. That means that if Tom goes the other side of the street, I'll be going with him."
"And you'd fight Blake?"
"It may come to that."
She got to her feet. "I'll see Hardeman." She turned to go, then stopped. "Tom will listen to you, Conn. See him. Tell him how foolish this all is."
"All right."
As I walked along the street I realized how serious it had become. It was much more than a boy going uptown to see a girl, for there was bad blood remaining from the War Between the States. Nine of my boys had fought in the Confederate Army, and most of the others had relatives who had. All of them but one were from Texas. One man ... and myself.
In a sense, it seemed that I was from Texas, too, for my parents were buried there, and it had been my home longer than anywhere else.
Along the street, in the saloons, the gambling houses, and the stores, and at the livery stable, were men who had fought with the Union, or had been, as I knew McDonald had been, rabid abolitionists. John Blake himself had been a scout for the Union Army.
The Texas trail drivers were, for the most part, uninterested in what lay north of the street. In each trail town there was such a division, and it received unspoken acceptance. The cowhands came to town to have a wild time, and a wild time belonged in the saloons and the houses of the Line. Each man understood that, and regarded it as no slight to be kept south of the street.
John Blake's rule was a reasonable one, and nobody but an occasional belligerent drunk felt called upon to question it. The case of Tom Lundy was something quite different.
Tom was the younger brother of the boss, but he was also the younger brother of every man on the outfit, even those close to his own age. He was a gentleman, and had always conducted himself as one. He rode the wildest of bucking horses, he was a top hand with a rope, he worked right along with the hands and drew the same wages, and while filled with a reckless, devil-take-the-hindmost attitude when in the saddle, he was always a gentleman. He didn't drink, and no man in the outfit would have offered him a drink.
To deny Tom Lundy the right to go north of the street to call on a girl was a direct insult to every man on the Tumbling B. The bitter feelings left over from the war rankled.
Even in Texas the Davis police force had treated the Texans like second-class citizens, and the resentment burned deep.
John Blake knew what that meant, and he also knew the men of our crew. Every man of them was a veteran of dozens of minor or major gun battles with Indians or outlaws, or of trail-town squabbles. The town might defeat them, might even wipe them out, but other men would die before that
Out on the street, I stood for a minute in the sunlight. There was only one thing to it, of course. I'd have to pull the crew out of town. We'd have to move the herd.
Kate was at the hotel when I walked in, and I knew she had heard something. We went to a quiet corner of the big, almost empty lobby and sat down.
"What did he say?"
"No give to him, Kate, but I see his point. He doesn't dare open the door even a crack." And then I told her what John Blake had said about Linda McDonald. "It doesn't make sense to me, Kate. Why would a girl do a thing like that?"
Kate was silent, and I waited; for Kate, despite all her surface hardness, was an understanding woman with a lot of savvy where people were concerned.
"She may hate men ... and she may love her father."
"I don't get you."
"Sometimes, often without knowing it, a girl measures all men by her father. She may enjoy seeing him run them off, and to her it may be a way of continually proving her father's superiority."
"Kate, how do we stand with Hardeman?"
"He's offered twenty-two dollars a head, but I think he'll go to twenty-five."
"Take it, Kate. Let's get out of here." She looked at me quickly. "Is it that bad?"
"I've told him I'd back Tom. That means that if Tom goes the other side of the street, I'll be going with him."
"And you'd fight Blake?"
"It may come to that."
She got to her feet. "I'll see Hardeman." She turned to go, then stopped. "Tom will listen to you, Conn. See him. Tell him how foolish this all is."
"All right."
As I walked along the street I realized how serious it had become. It was much more than a boy going uptown to see a girl, for there was bad blood remaining from the War Between the States. Nine of my boys had fought in the Confederate Army, and most of the others had relatives who had. All of them but one were from Texas. One man ... and myself.
In a sense, it seemed that I was from Texas, too, for my parents were buried there, and it had been my home longer than anywhere else.
Along the street, in the saloons, the gambling houses, and the stores, and at the livery stable, were men who had fought with the Union, or had been, as I knew McDonald had been, rabid abolitionists. John Blake himself had been a scout for the Union Army.
The Texas trail drivers were, for the most part, uninterested in what lay north of the street. In each trail town there was such a division, and it received unspoken acceptance. The cowhands came to town to have a wild time, and a wild time belonged in the saloons and the houses of the Line. Each man understood that, and regarded it as no slight to be kept south of the street.
John Blake's rule was a reasonable one, and nobody but an occasional belligerent drunk felt called upon to question it. The case of Tom Lundy was something quite different.
Tom was the younger brother of the boss, but he was also the younger brother of every man on the outfit, even those close to his own age. He was a gentleman, and had always conducted himself as one. He rode the wildest of bucking horses, he was a top hand with a rope, he worked right along with the hands and drew the same wages, and while filled with a reckless, devil-take-the-hindmost attitude when in the saddle, he was always a gentleman. He didn't drink, and no man in the outfit would have offered him a drink.
To deny Tom Lundy the right to go north of the street to call on a girl was a direct insult to every man on the Tumbling B. The bitter feelings left over from the war rankled.
Even in Texas the Davis police force had treated the Texans like second-class citizens, and the resentment burned deep.
John Blake knew what that meant, and he also knew the men of our crew. Every man of them was a veteran of dozens of minor or major gun battles with Indians or outlaws, or of trail-town squabbles. The town might defeat them, might even wipe them out, but other men would die before that
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