Read Online Novel 1959 - The First Fast Draw (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis L’Amour
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own eyes go wide with surprise and hurt.
My face was still bruised and the cuts had only half-healed, and I suspect I was a sight to see. “Chance told me what they had done,” she said, “but I didn’t believe it was so bad.”
“I’ll have a talk with Chance.”
She caught my sleeve. “Cullen, why don’t you go away? They’ll not leave you alone, you must know that! Even if the others will leave you alone, Chance never will. He hates you, Cullen.”
“I’ll not run…and this land is mine. I would put seed in the ground here, and grow crops, and build the place as Pa would have built it. If I leave all this behind his work was for nothing.”
“His work was for you. It is you who are important, not the land.”
“Are you so anxious to be rid of me?”
“No, but I want you alive.”
Looking at her then I said something I had no right to say, no right even to think. “Where you are not—I would not feel alive.”
Then I turned sharp around and walked into the sun-bright street, afraid of what I’d said, and not knowing why I’d said it, except that now it was said I knew it was the truest thing I had ever said.
Time was, any man who said such a thing and not one of her own kind would have been horsewhipped or called out. Yet I had said it who had no right of any kind to say that to such a girl, least of all to her.
There was no girl of her kind likely to have an interest in Cullen Baker. What was I but a big, loose-footed wandering man with no money and nothing to his name? And who was nobody, nor likely to be anybody.
Remembering the reflection I’d seen of myself in the window, I knew there was nothing in that big, shock-headed and raw-boned young man in a faded red wool shirt that would be likely to interest a Thorne of Black-thorne, or anybody who married with them. I was a man carried a pistol. Folks had no good to say of me, and mostly they were right. I was not as bad as they painted in most ways, but worse in some others. No hand to lie, I never drank either, although often they said I did, but I’d killed men in pistol fights and rode a hard trail over a lot of rough country.
How could a man driven to the swamps like a wounded wolf mean anything to such a girl? A man who had nothing to his name but three shirts and one pair of pants, a man who had drifted and rode and fought with the ragtag and bobtail of the West?
My mother had been quality and my father of good yeoman stock, but there’d been nothing else to the family. Pa had worked hard all his life, but he’d been unlucky. Fire had wiped out one home, and grasshoppers had taken the crop two years succeeding, and there were things happened no man can fight off, things that saddled us with debt.
Bob Lee was a knowing man, and Bob Lee looked me over and said, “I don’t blame you, Cullen.”
“What did he do?” Jack English wanted to know. “What aren’t you blamin’ him for? Because he whupped that Joel Reese? I’d have done it myself, if excuse had been offered. There never was a good thing about that man.”
“You would have reason, Cullen,” Bob Lee said. “I think she would go wherever you wanted to ride.”
“Don’t speak slighting of her, Bob.”
“No such thing. I never spoke slighting of any woman, Cullen. Only she’s in love with you, that one is.”
“Of itself that’s a slighting thing. What woman of sense could look at a man like me? How much time have I got, Bob? How much time have any of us? We’ve our enemies, you and me, and all of us, too. You have the Peacocks, and I have Chance Thorne, and then there’s the Reconstruction people who’ve no use for any of us.
“I tell you, Bob, even if she’d have me, and there’s no thinking of that, I’ll have no woman crying over my bloodstained shirt, as I’ve often seen them cry.”
We rode silent then, and after a bit Bob Lee said, “There’s little sense in loving, Cullen. Love has a sense of its own and I expect often as not it’s the
My face was still bruised and the cuts had only half-healed, and I suspect I was a sight to see. “Chance told me what they had done,” she said, “but I didn’t believe it was so bad.”
“I’ll have a talk with Chance.”
She caught my sleeve. “Cullen, why don’t you go away? They’ll not leave you alone, you must know that! Even if the others will leave you alone, Chance never will. He hates you, Cullen.”
“I’ll not run…and this land is mine. I would put seed in the ground here, and grow crops, and build the place as Pa would have built it. If I leave all this behind his work was for nothing.”
“His work was for you. It is you who are important, not the land.”
“Are you so anxious to be rid of me?”
“No, but I want you alive.”
Looking at her then I said something I had no right to say, no right even to think. “Where you are not—I would not feel alive.”
Then I turned sharp around and walked into the sun-bright street, afraid of what I’d said, and not knowing why I’d said it, except that now it was said I knew it was the truest thing I had ever said.
Time was, any man who said such a thing and not one of her own kind would have been horsewhipped or called out. Yet I had said it who had no right of any kind to say that to such a girl, least of all to her.
There was no girl of her kind likely to have an interest in Cullen Baker. What was I but a big, loose-footed wandering man with no money and nothing to his name? And who was nobody, nor likely to be anybody.
Remembering the reflection I’d seen of myself in the window, I knew there was nothing in that big, shock-headed and raw-boned young man in a faded red wool shirt that would be likely to interest a Thorne of Black-thorne, or anybody who married with them. I was a man carried a pistol. Folks had no good to say of me, and mostly they were right. I was not as bad as they painted in most ways, but worse in some others. No hand to lie, I never drank either, although often they said I did, but I’d killed men in pistol fights and rode a hard trail over a lot of rough country.
How could a man driven to the swamps like a wounded wolf mean anything to such a girl? A man who had nothing to his name but three shirts and one pair of pants, a man who had drifted and rode and fought with the ragtag and bobtail of the West?
My mother had been quality and my father of good yeoman stock, but there’d been nothing else to the family. Pa had worked hard all his life, but he’d been unlucky. Fire had wiped out one home, and grasshoppers had taken the crop two years succeeding, and there were things happened no man can fight off, things that saddled us with debt.
Bob Lee was a knowing man, and Bob Lee looked me over and said, “I don’t blame you, Cullen.”
“What did he do?” Jack English wanted to know. “What aren’t you blamin’ him for? Because he whupped that Joel Reese? I’d have done it myself, if excuse had been offered. There never was a good thing about that man.”
“You would have reason, Cullen,” Bob Lee said. “I think she would go wherever you wanted to ride.”
“Don’t speak slighting of her, Bob.”
“No such thing. I never spoke slighting of any woman, Cullen. Only she’s in love with you, that one is.”
“Of itself that’s a slighting thing. What woman of sense could look at a man like me? How much time have I got, Bob? How much time have any of us? We’ve our enemies, you and me, and all of us, too. You have the Peacocks, and I have Chance Thorne, and then there’s the Reconstruction people who’ve no use for any of us.
“I tell you, Bob, even if she’d have me, and there’s no thinking of that, I’ll have no woman crying over my bloodstained shirt, as I’ve often seen them cry.”
We rode silent then, and after a bit Bob Lee said, “There’s little sense in loving, Cullen. Love has a sense of its own and I expect often as not it’s the
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