Radigan (1958) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Louis L'amour
The sorrel was a good trail horse, half-Morgan and half-mustang, with lots of bottom and enough speed.
He stepped into the leather and Child put a hand on the saddle. "You watch yourself.
That dead man's face is something I remember and I remember it with trouble."
No need to worry, Child told himself. Radigan was a good man in woods or mountains, and like an Apache on a trail. He had been a Texas Ranger for two years and built a solid reputa tion , but he was not a man to shoot unless pushed into it.
The trail was plain enough, for there had been a hard rain that wiped out tracks before the shooting and wind enough to dry the mud and set the tracks since the rain stopped. The horse had galloped a short distance, settled to a canter and then to a walk. Several times it had hesitated as if uncertain, then had set out down the trail. The trail led right to the bottom of Guadalupe Canyon and after that there was small chance to wander.
San Ysidro was nothing much as a town. Three stores, two saloons and a third saloon that was called a hotel because they occasionally rented rooms, and a scattering of houses, most of them adobe. It was just short of noon when Tom Radigan rode into town.
There were four horses at the hitching rack and a buckboard, but nobody on the street.
Three of the horses were branded with a Running M-on-a Rail, a brand strange to him.
He tied his horse at the hitching rack and went into the saloon. Two of the men at the bar were strangers, the third was Deputy Sheriff Jim Flynn and the fourth a man in buckskins who trapped over in the Nacimientos. His name was Hickman.
They nodded to each other and Flynn asked, "Travelin', Tom? Didn't figure to see you around here this late in the year. "
"Man has to get out, time to time." He glanced briefly at the two strange riders.
They looked to be tough, competent men. But why here? There was no Running M-on-a-Rail in this part of the country and no open range. There should be a third rider . . where?
Deputy Sheriff Flynn was doing some thinking of his own. He had been marshal of' two cowtowns, sheriff and deputy sheriff elsewhere, and as far as he was concerned San Ysidro was the end of the line. He was married now and the father of two children, and he wanted no trouble here.
A handy man with a gun who knew his job thoroughly, he had always been worried by Tom Radigan.
He had known such men before. Hickok and Courtright, of course, but Radigan was more like Tilghman, Gillette or John Hughes. He was a dangerous man, but a man with quality, tempered in harsher fires than San Ysidro could offer.
A quiet man, Radigan minded his own business and rarely drank, but Flynn understood the potential. Knowing his business as he did he also knew there was no logical reason for Radigan's presence in town today. Radigan had bought supplies only two weeks ago and they usually lasted him all of two months, but this had been an order for the winter and unusually heavy. Nor did Radigan come to town for company or to get drunk. The deputy sheriff took another look at Radigan's face and decided this was a war party.
Toying with his glass, he estimated the situation. What had happened that was different than usual? What could have happened to bring Torn Radigan into town right now?
The answer was obvious. The three strange cowhands and the stranger with the buckboard.
All were armed, all looked to be tough, capable men; and more than that, they were better dressed, hence better paid. These were not simply cowpunchers but fighting punchers. And fighting men are not hired unless to fight.
"Stage is about due," Flynn commented.
"No rush this time of year," Downey the barman said as he leaned his thick elbows on the mahogany. "Folks just naturally start avoiding this country just shy of first snowfall, and they're smart.
One of the strange riders looked around. "Does it get cold here?"
Flynn nodded, looking into his glass. "You're up high, man. You're right near a mile
He stepped into the leather and Child put a hand on the saddle. "You watch yourself.
That dead man's face is something I remember and I remember it with trouble."
No need to worry, Child told himself. Radigan was a good man in woods or mountains, and like an Apache on a trail. He had been a Texas Ranger for two years and built a solid reputa tion , but he was not a man to shoot unless pushed into it.
The trail was plain enough, for there had been a hard rain that wiped out tracks before the shooting and wind enough to dry the mud and set the tracks since the rain stopped. The horse had galloped a short distance, settled to a canter and then to a walk. Several times it had hesitated as if uncertain, then had set out down the trail. The trail led right to the bottom of Guadalupe Canyon and after that there was small chance to wander.
San Ysidro was nothing much as a town. Three stores, two saloons and a third saloon that was called a hotel because they occasionally rented rooms, and a scattering of houses, most of them adobe. It was just short of noon when Tom Radigan rode into town.
There were four horses at the hitching rack and a buckboard, but nobody on the street.
Three of the horses were branded with a Running M-on-a Rail, a brand strange to him.
He tied his horse at the hitching rack and went into the saloon. Two of the men at the bar were strangers, the third was Deputy Sheriff Jim Flynn and the fourth a man in buckskins who trapped over in the Nacimientos. His name was Hickman.
They nodded to each other and Flynn asked, "Travelin', Tom? Didn't figure to see you around here this late in the year. "
"Man has to get out, time to time." He glanced briefly at the two strange riders.
They looked to be tough, competent men. But why here? There was no Running M-on-a-Rail in this part of the country and no open range. There should be a third rider . . where?
Deputy Sheriff Flynn was doing some thinking of his own. He had been marshal of' two cowtowns, sheriff and deputy sheriff elsewhere, and as far as he was concerned San Ysidro was the end of the line. He was married now and the father of two children, and he wanted no trouble here.
A handy man with a gun who knew his job thoroughly, he had always been worried by Tom Radigan.
He had known such men before. Hickok and Courtright, of course, but Radigan was more like Tilghman, Gillette or John Hughes. He was a dangerous man, but a man with quality, tempered in harsher fires than San Ysidro could offer.
A quiet man, Radigan minded his own business and rarely drank, but Flynn understood the potential. Knowing his business as he did he also knew there was no logical reason for Radigan's presence in town today. Radigan had bought supplies only two weeks ago and they usually lasted him all of two months, but this had been an order for the winter and unusually heavy. Nor did Radigan come to town for company or to get drunk. The deputy sheriff took another look at Radigan's face and decided this was a war party.
Toying with his glass, he estimated the situation. What had happened that was different than usual? What could have happened to bring Torn Radigan into town right now?
The answer was obvious. The three strange cowhands and the stranger with the buckboard.
All were armed, all looked to be tough, capable men; and more than that, they were better dressed, hence better paid. These were not simply cowpunchers but fighting punchers. And fighting men are not hired unless to fight.
"Stage is about due," Flynn commented.
"No rush this time of year," Downey the barman said as he leaned his thick elbows on the mahogany. "Folks just naturally start avoiding this country just shy of first snowfall, and they're smart.
One of the strange riders looked around. "Does it get cold here?"
Flynn nodded, looking into his glass. "You're up high, man. You're right near a mile
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