Louis LAmour - Showdown Trail

Winter snows were melting in the forests of the Kaibab, and the red-and-orange hue of the 1,000-foot Vermilion Cliffs was streaked with the dampness of melting frost. Deer were feeding in the forest glades among the stands of ponderosa and fir, and the trout were leaping in the streams. Where sunlight trailed through the webbed overhang of the leaves, the water danced and sparkled.

Five deer were feeding on the grass along a mountain stream back of Finger Butte, their coats mottled by the light and shadow of the sun shining through the trees. A vague something moved in the woods behind them, and the five-pronged buck lifted his regal head and stared curiously about. He turned his nose into the wind, reading it cautiously. But his trust was betrayal, for the movement was downwind of him.

The movement came again, and a young man stepped from concealment behind a huge fir not twenty feet from the nearest deer. He was straight and tall in gray, fringed buckskins, and he wore no hat. His hair was thick, black, and wavy, growing fully over the temples, and his face was lean and brown. Smiling, he walked toward the deer with quick, lithe strides, and had taken three full steps before some tiny sound betrayed him.

The bucks head came up and swung around, and then with a startled snort it sprang away, the others following.

Mike Bastian stood grinning, his hands on his hips.

Well, what do you think now, Roundy? he called. Could your Apache beat that? I could have touched him if I had jumped after him!

Rance Roundy came out of the treesa lean, wiry old man with a gray mustache and blue eyes that were still bright with an alert awareness.

No, Ill be darned if any Apache ever lived as could beat that! he chortled. Not a mite of it! An I never seen the day I could beat it, either. Youre a caution, Mike, you sure are. Im glad youre not sneakin up after my hair! He drew his pipe from his pocket and started stoking it with tobacco. Were goin back to Toadstool Caon, Mike. Your dad sent for us.

Bastian looked up quickly. Is there trouble, is that it?

No, only he wants to talk with you. MaybeRoundy was cautioushe figures its time you went out on a job. On one of those rides.

I think thats it. Mike nodded. He said in the spring, and its about time for the first ride. I wonder where theyll go this time.

No tellin. The deal will be well planned, though. That dad of yours would have made a fine general, Mike. Hes got the head for it, he sure has. Never forgets a thing, that one.

Youve been with him a long time, havent you?

Suresince before he found you. I knowed him in Mexico in the war, and that was longer ago than I like to think. I was a boy then, my own self. Son, Roundy said suddenly, look!

He tossed a huge pinecone into the air, a big one at least nine inches long.

With a flash of movement, Mike Bastian palmed his gun, and almost as soon as it hit his hand it belched flameand again. The second shot spattered the cone into a bunch of flying brown chips.

Not bad! Roundy nodded. You still shoot too quick, though. You got to get over that, Mike. Sometimes, one shot is all youll ever get.

Side-by-side the two walked through the trees, the earth spongy with a thick blanket of pine needles. Roundy was not as tall as Mike, but he walked with the long, springy stride of the woodsman. He smoked in silence for some distance, and then he spoke up.

Mike, if Bens ready for you to go out, what will you do?

For two steps, Bastian said nothing. Then he spoke slowly. Why, go, I guess. What else?

Youre sure? Youre sure you want to be an outlaw?

Thats what I was raised for, isnt it? There was some bitterness in Mikes voice. Somebody to take over what Ben Curry started?

Yeah, thats what you were raised for, all right. But this you want to remember, Mike. Its your life. Ben Curry, for all his power, cant live it for you. Moreover, times have changed since Ben and me rode into this country. It aint free and wild like it was, because folks are comin in, settlin it up, makin homes. Gettin away wont be so easy, and your pards will change, too. In fact, they have already changed. When Ben and me come into this country, it was every man for himself. More than one harum-scarum fella, who was otherwise all right, got himself the name of an outlaw. Nobody figured much about it, then. We rustled cows, but so did half the big ranchers of the West. And if a cowpoke got hard up and stopped a stage, nobody made much fuss unless he killed somebody. They figured it was just high spirits. But the last few years, it aint like that no more. And it aint only that the country is growin upits partly Ben Curry himself.

You mean hes grown too big? Mike put in.

What else? Why, your dad controls more land than there is in New York State. Got it right under his thumb. And hes feared over half the West by those who knows about him, although not many do.