to Tame a Land (1955) Read Online Free
Author: Louis L'amour
boy. Maybe when he comes, I'll come with him."
She looked up at him and her cheeks were a littl e pinkish under the tan. "Come, then, Logan Pollard.
There's a welcome for you, too."
So we watched them start off toward the Salt Lake an d the distant Pilot Butte, beyond the horizon. "If she couldn' t marry Pap," I said, "I'd rather it would be you."
Pollard looked at me, but he did not smile. Only hi s eyes were friendly-like. "Rye," he said, "that was a nic e thing you said."
South we rode then, and he showed me Brown's Hole , where the trappers used to rendezvous, and we rod e through the rugged country and down to Santa Fe. Onl y it wasn't all riding, and it wasn't all easy. Every day h e drilled me with the gun, and somehow I began to ge t the feel of it. My hands had always had a feel for a gu n butt, and the big six-shooter began to handle easier. I c ould draw fast and shoot straight.
We lived off the country. Logan Pollard showed m e how to rig snares and traps for small game, how to mak e a moose call, and what to use for bait when fishing. H e showed me how to make a pot out of birch bark in whic h a man could boil water as long as the flame was kept below the water-level in the pot. He showed me how to buil d fires and he taught me to use wood ashes for bakin g powder in making biscuits.
Sometimes we would split up and travel alone all day , meeting only at night, and then I would have to rustl e my own grub, and often as not track him to where we wer e to meet.
When he would ride on ahead and have me track hi m down, I would practice with the gun while waiting to star t out. It had a natural, easy feel in my hand. I tried drawing and turning to fire as I drew. But Logan Pollard tol d me to respect a gun, too.
"They make them to kill," he said, "and you can kil l yourself or somebody you love just as easy as an enemy.
Every gun you haven't personally unloaded that minut e should be treated as a loaded gun. Guns aren't suppose d to be empty."
Santa Fe was a big town to me, the biggest since th e wagon train left Missouri, and bigger than any town I' d seen up to then, except St. Louis.
There in Santa Fe I took a job herding a small bunc h of cattle for a man, keeping them inside the boundar y creek and out of the canyon. It was lazy, easy work mos t of the time. He paid me ten dollars a month, and afte r two months of it Logan Pollard came around to see me.
"You need some boots," he said, "and a new shirt."
He bought them for me from a pocketful of gold coins , and then we went to a Mexican place he knew and ate a good Mexican meal, chicken with rice and black beans.
Only he made me tuck my gun down inside my pants, an d I wore it like that when I was in Santa Fe.
One day when I was with the cattle he rode out t o see me and he took a book out of his saddlebags.
"Read it," he said. "Read it five times. You'll like i t better each time. It's some stories about great men, an d more great men have read this book than any other."
"Who wrote it?"
"Plutarch," he said, "and you can read it in the saddle."
It was warm and pleasant in the sunshine those days , and I read while I sat the saddle, or loafed under a tre e sometimes, making an occasional circle to hold the stoc k in. And then one day two Mexicans rode up with a mea n look in their eyes, and they fretted me some looking ove r the cattle like they did.
One of them rode out and started to bunch the cattle , so I put Plutarch in the saddlebag and got up on Old Blue.
He walked out there mighty slow. I figure Old Blu e knew more than me, and he could smell trouble making u p before it hit.
We were halfway out there before they saw us, an d they hesitated a moment, and then, getting a better look , they laughed.
"Nih-o," he said, and kept bunching the cows. And a s I drew nearer they started them moving away from me , toward the creek.
"Leave those cows," I said. "Get away from here!"
They paid me no mind and I was getting scared. I' d been set to
She looked up at him and her cheeks were a littl e pinkish under the tan. "Come, then, Logan Pollard.
There's a welcome for you, too."
So we watched them start off toward the Salt Lake an d the distant Pilot Butte, beyond the horizon. "If she couldn' t marry Pap," I said, "I'd rather it would be you."
Pollard looked at me, but he did not smile. Only hi s eyes were friendly-like. "Rye," he said, "that was a nic e thing you said."
South we rode then, and he showed me Brown's Hole , where the trappers used to rendezvous, and we rod e through the rugged country and down to Santa Fe. Onl y it wasn't all riding, and it wasn't all easy. Every day h e drilled me with the gun, and somehow I began to ge t the feel of it. My hands had always had a feel for a gu n butt, and the big six-shooter began to handle easier. I c ould draw fast and shoot straight.
We lived off the country. Logan Pollard showed m e how to rig snares and traps for small game, how to mak e a moose call, and what to use for bait when fishing. H e showed me how to make a pot out of birch bark in whic h a man could boil water as long as the flame was kept below the water-level in the pot. He showed me how to buil d fires and he taught me to use wood ashes for bakin g powder in making biscuits.
Sometimes we would split up and travel alone all day , meeting only at night, and then I would have to rustl e my own grub, and often as not track him to where we wer e to meet.
When he would ride on ahead and have me track hi m down, I would practice with the gun while waiting to star t out. It had a natural, easy feel in my hand. I tried drawing and turning to fire as I drew. But Logan Pollard tol d me to respect a gun, too.
"They make them to kill," he said, "and you can kil l yourself or somebody you love just as easy as an enemy.
Every gun you haven't personally unloaded that minut e should be treated as a loaded gun. Guns aren't suppose d to be empty."
Santa Fe was a big town to me, the biggest since th e wagon train left Missouri, and bigger than any town I' d seen up to then, except St. Louis.
There in Santa Fe I took a job herding a small bunc h of cattle for a man, keeping them inside the boundar y creek and out of the canyon. It was lazy, easy work mos t of the time. He paid me ten dollars a month, and afte r two months of it Logan Pollard came around to see me.
"You need some boots," he said, "and a new shirt."
He bought them for me from a pocketful of gold coins , and then we went to a Mexican place he knew and ate a good Mexican meal, chicken with rice and black beans.
Only he made me tuck my gun down inside my pants, an d I wore it like that when I was in Santa Fe.
One day when I was with the cattle he rode out t o see me and he took a book out of his saddlebags.
"Read it," he said. "Read it five times. You'll like i t better each time. It's some stories about great men, an d more great men have read this book than any other."
"Who wrote it?"
"Plutarch," he said, "and you can read it in the saddle."
It was warm and pleasant in the sunshine those days , and I read while I sat the saddle, or loafed under a tre e sometimes, making an occasional circle to hold the stoc k in. And then one day two Mexicans rode up with a mea n look in their eyes, and they fretted me some looking ove r the cattle like they did.
One of them rode out and started to bunch the cattle , so I put Plutarch in the saddlebag and got up on Old Blue.
He walked out there mighty slow. I figure Old Blu e knew more than me, and he could smell trouble making u p before it hit.
We were halfway out there before they saw us, an d they hesitated a moment, and then, getting a better look , they laughed.
"Nih-o," he said, and kept bunching the cows. And a s I drew nearer they started them moving away from me , toward the creek.
"Leave those cows," I said. "Get away from here!"
They paid me no mind and I was getting scared. I' d been set to
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