By Louis L'Amour
He used to be an orphan from the hills of Tennessee and he hadn’t eaten in 3 days. With front of his belly making associates with the again, he was once in no place to permit a chance slip by means of omitted. And while Chancy defended his new herd of livestock with a shotgun, he didn’t pass over. The useless guy left a pistol at the floor. Chancy wanted a spare and, after stowing it in his bedroll, forgot approximately it. He had a livestock force to complete and a revenue to make.
But the gun had a background. one other killing had taken position and Chancy might by no means understand the reality until eventually it used to be too overdue. Now, locked in a prison telephone with an indignant, drunken mob outdoors and time operating out, he needs to by some means have the opportunity to turn out his innocence.
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The cattle drifted by, moving slowly, as always, pausing here and there to graze a bit, then moving on. Finally I swung my horse as if to join the herd, and again the Indians asked for beef. “I’ll swap a fat steer for that buckskin,” I said. ” The horse was worth three steers to me because I was already overworking the dun, and once we got out on open grass we’d need three or four horses each to handle those cattle. Even that number wouldn’t be enough to do the job really right. Moving through the brush as we had been doing, there wasn’t much chance so far for the stock to stray.
He was drunk at the time, and him unaccustomed to strong drink. When he sobered up he’d have taken that horse back, with apologies. He was that kind of man. ” “That makes no difference. Your pa stole that horse, and Mr. Brimstead’s an important man. ” When the door closed I held still a minute, listening. Then I went through the barnyard, climbed over the fence, and made it to my mule. Behind me a door closed, so I sat my saddle, listening. Who could that be, I wondered. It had sounded like the Dunvegan door.
By some of the houses trees had been planted, and some had flowers around, but most of the places were bare-looking, and without any fixing. Abilene itself wasn’t much. The Drovers’ Cottage was the first thing we noticed. A good hotel, with the best wines, whiskies, and cigars, it had been built by Joe McCoy. He’d had the foresight to see it all, to begin it all, and then he’d had the bad luck to lose most of it. There was Henry’s Land Office…the Metropolitan Hotel…both of them two-storied brick buildings, and across the street was a bank.