West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) Read Online Free
Author: Louis L'amour
starting fire. Concealing his horse, he walked down the slope through the trees.
When he reached a spot near the camp the smoke had ceased, but the fire was blazing cheerfully. A stocky man with a tough, easy manner about him worked around the fire. He wore chaps, a faded red flannel shirt, a battered hat . . . and a gun.
Rossiter turned and started back through the trees. If he cut across country he could have Mulcahy and a posse here shortly after daybreak.
A pound of hooves stopped him and he merged his body with a pine tree and waited, alert for trouble. Through an opening between trees he saw three riders. Two men and a boy.
A boy . . .
With a tight feeling in his chest he turned abruptly about and carefully worked his way back toward the camp. Ed Blick, George Sprague--and Mike Hamlin.
Mike's face was white, but he was game. His hands were lashed to the pommel of his saddle.
The red-shirted man looked up. "What goes on?" He glanced from the boy to Sprague.
"Found him workin' our trail like an Injun."
The man with the red shirt straightened and dropped the skillet. "I don't like this, George. I don't like it a bit." *
"What else can we do?"
"We can leave the country."
"For a kid?" Sprague began to build a smoke. "Don't be a fool."
"Lonnie said Frisby went to Rossiter, then Rossiter to the sheriff." Blick was talking. "I don't like it, George."
"You afraid of Rossiter?"
"That lawyer?" Blick's contempt was obvious. "Mul-cahy's the one who worries me. He's a bulldog."
"Leave him to me."
Their conclusion had been obvious. Mike Hamlin had found their trail, and now he had seen them. They must leave the country or kill him. And they had just said they would not leave the country.
The red-shirted man had not moved, and Rossiter could see the indecision in his face. Whatever else this man might be, Rossiter could see that he was no murderer. The man did not like any part of it, but apparently could not decide on a course of action.
Rossiter had no gun. ... He had been a fool to go unarmed, but he had intended only to ride to Frisby's to talk to Mike and look over the situation on the spot. He had never considered hunting the thieves himself, but there came a time when a man had to fork his own broncs.
Whatever they would do would be done at once. There was no time to ride for help. Blick lifted Hamlin from the saddle and put the boy on the ground some distance away. The red-shirted man watched him, his face stiff. Then Blick and Sprague slid the saddles from their horses and led them out to picket. Jim worked his way through the brush until he was close to the fire.
Rossiter knew there was little time and he had to gamble. "You going to let them kill that boy?" he asked quietly.
The man's head came up sharply. "Who's that?"
"I asked if you were going to let them kill that boy?"
He saw Rossiter now. His eyes measured him coolly. "You want them stopped," he said, "you stop them."
"I wasn't expecting trouble. I'm not packing a gun."
It was his life he was chancing as well as Mike's. Yet he believed he knew men, and in this one there was a basic manhood, a remnant of personal pride and integrity. Each man has his code, no matter how far down the scale.
The fellow got to his feet and strolled over to his war bag. From it he took a battered Colt. "Catch," he said, and walked back to the fire.
Jim Rossiter stepped back into the shadows, gun in hand. He had seen Mike's eyes on him, and in Mike's eyes there had been doubt. Rossiter was a reader of books, a thinker . . . and this was time for violence.
Sprague and Blick came back to the fire and Sprague looked sharply around. "Did I hear you talkin'?" "To the kid. I asked if he was hungry." Sprague studied the man for a long minute, suspicion thick upon him. "Don't waste the grub." He started to sit down, then saw the gap in the open war bag. With a quick stride he stepped to the boy and rolled him over, glanced at the rawhide that bound him, then looked around
When he reached a spot near the camp the smoke had ceased, but the fire was blazing cheerfully. A stocky man with a tough, easy manner about him worked around the fire. He wore chaps, a faded red flannel shirt, a battered hat . . . and a gun.
Rossiter turned and started back through the trees. If he cut across country he could have Mulcahy and a posse here shortly after daybreak.
A pound of hooves stopped him and he merged his body with a pine tree and waited, alert for trouble. Through an opening between trees he saw three riders. Two men and a boy.
A boy . . .
With a tight feeling in his chest he turned abruptly about and carefully worked his way back toward the camp. Ed Blick, George Sprague--and Mike Hamlin.
Mike's face was white, but he was game. His hands were lashed to the pommel of his saddle.
The red-shirted man looked up. "What goes on?" He glanced from the boy to Sprague.
"Found him workin' our trail like an Injun."
The man with the red shirt straightened and dropped the skillet. "I don't like this, George. I don't like it a bit." *
"What else can we do?"
"We can leave the country."
"For a kid?" Sprague began to build a smoke. "Don't be a fool."
"Lonnie said Frisby went to Rossiter, then Rossiter to the sheriff." Blick was talking. "I don't like it, George."
"You afraid of Rossiter?"
"That lawyer?" Blick's contempt was obvious. "Mul-cahy's the one who worries me. He's a bulldog."
"Leave him to me."
Their conclusion had been obvious. Mike Hamlin had found their trail, and now he had seen them. They must leave the country or kill him. And they had just said they would not leave the country.
The red-shirted man had not moved, and Rossiter could see the indecision in his face. Whatever else this man might be, Rossiter could see that he was no murderer. The man did not like any part of it, but apparently could not decide on a course of action.
Rossiter had no gun. ... He had been a fool to go unarmed, but he had intended only to ride to Frisby's to talk to Mike and look over the situation on the spot. He had never considered hunting the thieves himself, but there came a time when a man had to fork his own broncs.
Whatever they would do would be done at once. There was no time to ride for help. Blick lifted Hamlin from the saddle and put the boy on the ground some distance away. The red-shirted man watched him, his face stiff. Then Blick and Sprague slid the saddles from their horses and led them out to picket. Jim worked his way through the brush until he was close to the fire.
Rossiter knew there was little time and he had to gamble. "You going to let them kill that boy?" he asked quietly.
The man's head came up sharply. "Who's that?"
"I asked if you were going to let them kill that boy?"
He saw Rossiter now. His eyes measured him coolly. "You want them stopped," he said, "you stop them."
"I wasn't expecting trouble. I'm not packing a gun."
It was his life he was chancing as well as Mike's. Yet he believed he knew men, and in this one there was a basic manhood, a remnant of personal pride and integrity. Each man has his code, no matter how far down the scale.
The fellow got to his feet and strolled over to his war bag. From it he took a battered Colt. "Catch," he said, and walked back to the fire.
Jim Rossiter stepped back into the shadows, gun in hand. He had seen Mike's eyes on him, and in Mike's eyes there had been doubt. Rossiter was a reader of books, a thinker . . . and this was time for violence.
Sprague and Blick came back to the fire and Sprague looked sharply around. "Did I hear you talkin'?" "To the kid. I asked if he was hungry." Sprague studied the man for a long minute, suspicion thick upon him. "Don't waste the grub." He started to sit down, then saw the gap in the open war bag. With a quick stride he stepped to the boy and rolled him over, glanced at the rawhide that bound him, then looked around
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