Read Online Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis L'amour
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"You've run out of one fight and into another , unless you move quickly."
"Here?"
"Yes. We have moved in and planted crops and now a cattleman would be driving u s out. There are eleven of us-eleven that can fight, and fourteen women, who can help.
Some have been killed, my father for one. There are more than thirty tough hand s riding with the cattleman, and one of them is Sad Priest."
There was no good in Priest. Him I knew well and nothing about him I liked. "Wh o is the cattleman?"
"Yanel Webb. It's a big outfit."
"I know them." By now I was eating the broth and drinking coffee and the chill wa s leaving my bones, but my lids were heavy and there was a weight of sleep on my eyes.
She showed me to the bed where her father had slept and helped me off with my boot s and guns, and then what happened I never knew, for sleep folded me away into sof t darkness.
Though I remembered but fragments, there was a fever that took me and I tossed an d turned on the bed for hours. A drink of water from a cup in her gentle hand exhauste d me and the medicine in the dressings for my wound stained the sheets. At last I fade d off into a dreamless sleep that seemed to go on forever. When next my eyes opene d to awareness, there was daylight at the window and a clear sky beyond it and th e girl was standing in the door. I had a vague memory of someone knocking on the door , voices, and the pound of hooves receding into the distance.
"You'd best get up. They're coming."
"The Gleasons?"
"Webb and Priest, and his lot. And we're not ready for them. We're all scattered."
She dried her palms on her apron. "You'd best slip out. I've saddled your horse."
"And run?"
"It's no fight of yours."
"I'm not a running sort of man. And as to whether it's a fight of mine or not, tim e will be saying, for you've done me a turn and I pay my debts when I can ... hav e you coffee on?"
"My father said there must always be hot coffee in a house."
"Your father was a knowing man."
When I had my boots on and my guns I felt better, favoring my side a bit. When the y rode into the yard I was standing in the door with a cup of hot , black coffee i n my left hand.
There were at least twenty of them, and armed for business. Tough men, these. Toug h men and hard in the belly and eyes. The first of them was Webb, of whom I'd hear d talk, and on his left, that lean rail of poison, Sad Priest.
"Morning," I said. "You're riding early."
"We've no talk with you, whoever you are. Where's Maggie Ryan?"
"This morning I'm speaking for her. Is it trouble you're after? If it is"-I smile d at them, feeling good inside and liking the look of them-"you've called at the righ t door. However, I'll be forgivin'.
"If you turn about now and ride off, I'll be letting you go without risk."
"Let ms go?" Yanel Webb stared at me as if I was fair daft, and not a bad guess he' d made, for daft I am and always have been, for when there's a fight in the offing , something starts rolling around in me, something that's full of gladness and eagernes s that will not go down until there's fists or clubs or guns and somebody's won o r lost or got themselves a broken skull. "You'll let us go? Get out of here, man! Ge t out while we see fit to let you!"
That made me laugh. "Leave a scrap when the Priest is in it? That I'd never do, Webb."
I stepped out onto the porch, moving toward them, knowing there's something abou t closeness to a gun that turns men's insides to water and weakness. "How are you , Sad? Forgotten me?"
He opened his scar of a mouth and said, "I've never seen you before-" His voice brok e off and he stopped. " Race Mallin ..."
That made me chuckle. There'd been a change in his eyes then, for he knew me, an d I knew myself what was said about me, how I was a gun-crazy fool who had no brain s or coolness or anything, a man who wouldn't scare and wouldn't bluff and who woul d walk down the avenues of hell with dynamite in his pockets and tinder in his hair.
Now, no man
"Here?"
"Yes. We have moved in and planted crops and now a cattleman would be driving u s out. There are eleven of us-eleven that can fight, and fourteen women, who can help.
Some have been killed, my father for one. There are more than thirty tough hand s riding with the cattleman, and one of them is Sad Priest."
There was no good in Priest. Him I knew well and nothing about him I liked. "Wh o is the cattleman?"
"Yanel Webb. It's a big outfit."
"I know them." By now I was eating the broth and drinking coffee and the chill wa s leaving my bones, but my lids were heavy and there was a weight of sleep on my eyes.
She showed me to the bed where her father had slept and helped me off with my boot s and guns, and then what happened I never knew, for sleep folded me away into sof t darkness.
Though I remembered but fragments, there was a fever that took me and I tossed an d turned on the bed for hours. A drink of water from a cup in her gentle hand exhauste d me and the medicine in the dressings for my wound stained the sheets. At last I fade d off into a dreamless sleep that seemed to go on forever. When next my eyes opene d to awareness, there was daylight at the window and a clear sky beyond it and th e girl was standing in the door. I had a vague memory of someone knocking on the door , voices, and the pound of hooves receding into the distance.
"You'd best get up. They're coming."
"The Gleasons?"
"Webb and Priest, and his lot. And we're not ready for them. We're all scattered."
She dried her palms on her apron. "You'd best slip out. I've saddled your horse."
"And run?"
"It's no fight of yours."
"I'm not a running sort of man. And as to whether it's a fight of mine or not, tim e will be saying, for you've done me a turn and I pay my debts when I can ... hav e you coffee on?"
"My father said there must always be hot coffee in a house."
"Your father was a knowing man."
When I had my boots on and my guns I felt better, favoring my side a bit. When the y rode into the yard I was standing in the door with a cup of hot , black coffee i n my left hand.
There were at least twenty of them, and armed for business. Tough men, these. Toug h men and hard in the belly and eyes. The first of them was Webb, of whom I'd hear d talk, and on his left, that lean rail of poison, Sad Priest.
"Morning," I said. "You're riding early."
"We've no talk with you, whoever you are. Where's Maggie Ryan?"
"This morning I'm speaking for her. Is it trouble you're after? If it is"-I smile d at them, feeling good inside and liking the look of them-"you've called at the righ t door. However, I'll be forgivin'.
"If you turn about now and ride off, I'll be letting you go without risk."
"Let ms go?" Yanel Webb stared at me as if I was fair daft, and not a bad guess he' d made, for daft I am and always have been, for when there's a fight in the offing , something starts rolling around in me, something that's full of gladness and eagernes s that will not go down until there's fists or clubs or guns and somebody's won o r lost or got themselves a broken skull. "You'll let us go? Get out of here, man! Ge t out while we see fit to let you!"
That made me laugh. "Leave a scrap when the Priest is in it? That I'd never do, Webb."
I stepped out onto the porch, moving toward them, knowing there's something abou t closeness to a gun that turns men's insides to water and weakness. "How are you , Sad? Forgotten me?"
He opened his scar of a mouth and said, "I've never seen you before-" His voice brok e off and he stopped. " Race Mallin ..."
That made me chuckle. There'd been a change in his eyes then, for he knew me, an d I knew myself what was said about me, how I was a gun-crazy fool who had no brain s or coolness or anything, a man who wouldn't scare and wouldn't bluff and who woul d walk down the avenues of hell with dynamite in his pockets and tinder in his hair.
Now, no man
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