Taggart (1959) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Louis L'amour
once more, plodding along, his eyes staring into th e heat-blurred mystery into which he walked.
And then green leaves were brushing his face and with a grunt of longing he burs t through the brush into the bed of the Tonto.
It was dry.
Three times before, some years earlier, Swante Taggart had camped beside Tonto Cree k or watered his horse there, but now, when he needed it so much there was no wate r in it.
It was twenty miles to Turkey Spring, and through a mind fogged by exhaustion h e knew he was not going to make it. Nor was his horse.
The slight breeze from the south brought no reaction from the steeldust, and ha d there been water in a pool of the stream bed to the south, Swante knew the hors e would have smelled it. If water there was, anywhere near, it must lie to the north.
Turning, he plodded along the sandy bed, each step a special effort of will.
And then he fell again.
He did not stumble this time. He seemed to be wading in sand, and each step seeme d to take him deeper and deeper, until he fell face down in the sand.
For several minutes he lay prone until the nudging of the gelding stirred him t o action. Slowly, he got to his feet.
A faint sound came to him, and he turned his head like a man in sleep, strugglin g to place the sound. A cottonwood ... leaves rustling. The whispering leaves spok e of water. And then that sound again, a scratching and rustling. Carefully, he worke d his way into the brush on the stream's bank, but exhaustion had robbed him of guil e and he made the brush rustle. Instantly, the sound he had been moving toward stopped.
After a moment of silence it began once more. Pushing his way through the brush , he emerged a dozen feet from the base of a giant cottonwood. Nearby two porcupine s were digging for water.
The hole they had dug was only as large as a good-sized water bucket but the las t of the sand was damp.
He picked up a rock and shied it at them, but they stood their ground, quills bristling.
Swante Taggart moved toward them and reluctantly they backed off, giving ground slowly.
The gelding had followed him and it went to the hole, sniffing eagerly at the dam p sand, and scratching at it with one hoof.
Pulling the horse away, Swante knelt and began to scoop sand from the hole with bot h hands. The sand became damper, and he was down less than two feet. He dug on, workin g feverishly, and soon the hole began to fill with muddy water.
Swante sank back on his heels, and let the steeldust have the first of the water.
Then pushing the horse away, he dug the hole deeper, widened it out. The porcupine s had not left him. They waited on the edge of the brush making angry sounds at him , their need for water overcoming their fear of him.
He would make it then ... he would drink and the horse would drink and he would fil l the canteen. Then he would leave the water to the porcupines, and they deserved it.
He dipped his cupped hands into the water and gulped a mouthful which he held i n his mouth, letting the parched tissues soak it up ever so gradually, then allowin g a cool trickle to find its way down his raw throat.
The gelding whinnied pleadingly and he allowed the horse to drink again, althoug h there was scarcely more than a swallow or two in the bottom of the hole. He scoope d out more sand and the hole began to fill up. He managed another swallow, and a deliciou s coolness began to spread through him.
There was shade under the cottonwood, and concealment, so he stretched out on th e sand and lay still, relaxing little by little as exhaustion took over. From tim e to time the horse drank, then he began cropping on some brown grass nearby. Swant e lay still and listened to the sounds, and he heard the porcupines sucking at th e water.
Turning his head he saw them there, watching him warily, but drinking, too, not si x feet from where he lay.
When they were gone he cleaned out the pool and dug into his pack for what remaine d of his coffee. He built a small
And then green leaves were brushing his face and with a grunt of longing he burs t through the brush into the bed of the Tonto.
It was dry.
Three times before, some years earlier, Swante Taggart had camped beside Tonto Cree k or watered his horse there, but now, when he needed it so much there was no wate r in it.
It was twenty miles to Turkey Spring, and through a mind fogged by exhaustion h e knew he was not going to make it. Nor was his horse.
The slight breeze from the south brought no reaction from the steeldust, and ha d there been water in a pool of the stream bed to the south, Swante knew the hors e would have smelled it. If water there was, anywhere near, it must lie to the north.
Turning, he plodded along the sandy bed, each step a special effort of will.
And then he fell again.
He did not stumble this time. He seemed to be wading in sand, and each step seeme d to take him deeper and deeper, until he fell face down in the sand.
For several minutes he lay prone until the nudging of the gelding stirred him t o action. Slowly, he got to his feet.
A faint sound came to him, and he turned his head like a man in sleep, strugglin g to place the sound. A cottonwood ... leaves rustling. The whispering leaves spok e of water. And then that sound again, a scratching and rustling. Carefully, he worke d his way into the brush on the stream's bank, but exhaustion had robbed him of guil e and he made the brush rustle. Instantly, the sound he had been moving toward stopped.
After a moment of silence it began once more. Pushing his way through the brush , he emerged a dozen feet from the base of a giant cottonwood. Nearby two porcupine s were digging for water.
The hole they had dug was only as large as a good-sized water bucket but the las t of the sand was damp.
He picked up a rock and shied it at them, but they stood their ground, quills bristling.
Swante Taggart moved toward them and reluctantly they backed off, giving ground slowly.
The gelding had followed him and it went to the hole, sniffing eagerly at the dam p sand, and scratching at it with one hoof.
Pulling the horse away, Swante knelt and began to scoop sand from the hole with bot h hands. The sand became damper, and he was down less than two feet. He dug on, workin g feverishly, and soon the hole began to fill with muddy water.
Swante sank back on his heels, and let the steeldust have the first of the water.
Then pushing the horse away, he dug the hole deeper, widened it out. The porcupine s had not left him. They waited on the edge of the brush making angry sounds at him , their need for water overcoming their fear of him.
He would make it then ... he would drink and the horse would drink and he would fil l the canteen. Then he would leave the water to the porcupines, and they deserved it.
He dipped his cupped hands into the water and gulped a mouthful which he held i n his mouth, letting the parched tissues soak it up ever so gradually, then allowin g a cool trickle to find its way down his raw throat.
The gelding whinnied pleadingly and he allowed the horse to drink again, althoug h there was scarcely more than a swallow or two in the bottom of the hole. He scoope d out more sand and the hole began to fill up. He managed another swallow, and a deliciou s coolness began to spread through him.
There was shade under the cottonwood, and concealment, so he stretched out on th e sand and lay still, relaxing little by little as exhaustion took over. From tim e to time the horse drank, then he began cropping on some brown grass nearby. Swant e lay still and listened to the sounds, and he heard the porcupines sucking at th e water.
Turning his head he saw them there, watching him warily, but drinking, too, not si x feet from where he lay.
When they were gone he cleaned out the pool and dug into his pack for what remaine d of his coffee. He built a small
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