He stepped back from the window and felt his heart begin to pound, with slow, heavy, impossibly loud beats. That man walking ahead of the crowd was Clay Bell. Alive … not dead.
Wheeling, with an almost animal grunt, he jerked open a desk drawer, then another … another… . He had no gun. He had left it in his room. He had left it at the hotel.
The shock passed. He straightened and faced the door.
“Devitt!”
That was Bell, damn him! Bell, yelling to him!
He stepped quickly to the door and jerked it open. The shock was gone but it had left something behind, something he had never known before—a deep, burning, driving lust to smash, to maim, to kill… .
“You wanted me?”
His voice was icy cold, yet his body was trembling. There was the hated face, the man he wanted to destroy.
Clay Bell had never wanted to kill a man. He had never even wanted to fight a man. Yet, despite that, he had to admit in all honesty that once the battle was joined, he liked to fight.
Now, for the first time, remembering that Devitt had ordered the attack that had killed Bert Garry, that he had hired killers to shoot him, he found that he did want to fight. Jud Devitt was a man who only understood strength. Clay had handed over his guns with one idea in mind. He was going to meet Devitt on his own grounds, on his own terms.
Wat Williams had said what a fighting man Devitt was. All right …
The door burst open in response to his call and Jud Devitt stood there.
Clay felt a curious shock of surprise. The man was disheveled, almost dirty. But he was a big man, and in that moment, standing alone, Devitt showed that he was not afraid.
He was big, both taller and heavier than Clay, and the expression in his eyes was murderous. He started to speak, and then with a whining cry of inexpressible fury, he hurled himself from the door.
Clay stepped forward quickly to meet the attack, but even as he jerked up his hands, Devitt’s body struck him, knocking him back and down. Devitt went down with him, and both men rolled over and scrambled to their feet. Devitt was fast—surprisingly fast. He landed on his feet and he swung. The blow caught Bell on the side of the face and staggered him, but he clinched quickly, back-heeled Devitt, and threw him to the ground.
He stepped back and Devitt came up in a lunging dive. As Clay stepped back, his boot turned on a stone and he fell, taking a wicked swing in the face. Both men got up and walked into each other, swinging with both hands. Devitt was coldly, wildly furious. This man had balked and defeated him, but now he was here, where he, Devitt, wanted him. Where he could smash and destroy.
He staggered Bell with a right, and lunged in, butting with his head. Clay raked his face with an elbow, and slammed a right to the body and then a left. Clay jabbed, then pushing Devitt off, shook him to his heels with an uppercut.
Devitt lunged, and his fingers caught Clay’s shirt, ripping it down the front. He grabbed at Clay, and slugging wildly, they went to the ground. They rolled over and over, striking and gouging, and then broke free and scrambled to their feet.
Devitt threw a right, and Clay stiffened a left to his mouth that smashed his lips to a pulp. Instantly, Clay crossed a right to the chin. Devitt took it coming in and swung both hands with savage hatred.
But Devitt’s cold fury was settling into shrewd, driving, fighting skill. He was a man who could fight and who liked to fight. He had never lost a rough-and-tumble battle, and had often boasted he could whip any lumberjack in his crews, and had often proved it.
He bored in, using his head. He punched hard to the body and was surprised to find the punch blocked. Those months in New Orleans with Jem Mace had taught Clay Bell more than a little. Now, fighting for his life, he realized the true value of all he had been taught by the aging bare-knuckle champion.
Clay jabbed a left, moved and jabbed again. Devitt landed hard to the body, and Clay gasped for breath, feeling the sickening force of that punch. Devitt struck him on the kidney and Clay’s knees buckled. He clinched, swung hard to the ear, and felt the cartilage split under his fist. Then he smashed his right to the ribs and broke free. Devitt was streaming blood from the split ear and from his mouth.
Suddenly Devitt feinted, and Clay stepped in and caught a looping right that knocked him down. He rolled over, saw Devitt coming at him to kick, and then hurled himself at Devitt’s legs. The bigger man sprang back and Clay started up. Devitt kicked out, the boot narrowly missing Clay’s head but catching his shoulder and knocking him to his knees again.
Devitt rushed and Clay saw the boot swing back and threw himself against the one standing leg. Devitt went down, and then they both got to their feet.
Clay hit him with a right, a bone-jarring blow that loosened teeth, then swung a right to the body. Devitt gasped and backed up. He tried to cover, but Clay pawed his hand away and struck him in the mouth. Devitt swung wildly, and Clay hit him on the chin.
Devitt bored in, swung a looping right and Clay saw lights burst in his brain. He tottered, and a fist smashed his jaw. He staggered, tried to clinch, but Devitt shook him off.
Devitt swung, and Clay grabbed the arm with both hands, flinging Devitt around and to the ground. Devitt came up and Clay threw a high hard one that caught Devitt on the chin. He went to his knees and Clay grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him erect, smashing his fist twice to Devitt’s face and once into his body. The man’s knees sagged and Clay flung him against the building, where he hit with a thud.
He staggered away, then fell flat… .
Swaying on his feet, unable to believe it was over, Clay Bell waited. A muscle twitched in Devitt’s back, no more.
Bell turned, mopping blood and sweat from his face.
Hank Rooney jerked a thumb at the fallen man. “What’ll we do with him?”
“Throw him on the night train, stuff his money in his pockets … get rid of him.”
Clay Bell’s head was throbbing. He walked to the water trough and ducked his head once, then again. He splashed water on his body, and somebody came running from the hotel with a fresh shirt. He dried himself, then pulled on the shirt.
The crowd stood around, unwilling to believe the savage afternoon was spent, but Clay Bell turned away and began to walk toward Tinker’s. He wanted to get away, to stay away, to be back on his porch with evening coming on and the stars.
Colleen was waiting on the hotel porch and as he came up the steps she went to him quickly. Her eyes went to a gash on his cheekbone and she started to lift her fingers to touch his battered face.
He caught her wrist. “Your father inside?”
“Yes, but don’t you think you should—”
He looked past her shoulder. “Sam, send somebody for that tall piano player from the Homestake. You can be best man.”
“What about me?” Colleen put her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you even going to ask me?”
“Never ask ’em,” Clay tried to smile with his swollen lips. “Tell ’em!”
“Well—” Colleen hesitated.
“Inside,” Clay told her, and held the door open.
Sam Tinker heaved himself to his feet. It was a good town, Tinkersville, a good place to live.
He looked down the street. It was almost empty of men. The crowd had drifted to the bars to talk of the fight. Down the street a cowhand leaning against an awning post struck a match on his chaps. Somewhere a door slammed, and from the corner of the Tinker House Sam looked off toward Deep Creek, beyond Piety, where those thousands of trees were still standing, breathing with the wind, shedding their needles, and where Deep Creek still ran clear and swift over its stones.
It was a good town, a good town. He would get the piano player himself.
About Louis L’Amour
“I think of myself in the oral tradition—
as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man
in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way
I’d like to be remembered—as a storyteller
.
A good storyteller.”
IT IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are more than 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L’Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life’s work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L’Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry the L’Amour tradition forward with new books written by the author during his lifetime to be published by Bantam.
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR THE BOOKS YOU HAVE MISSED.
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
The First Fast Draw
Flint
Guns of the Timberlands
Hanging Woman Creek
The Haunted Mesa
Heller with a Gun
The High Graders
High Lonesome
Hondo
How the West Was Won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man
Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Wells
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from Skibbereen
The Man from the Broken Hills
Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The Quick and the Dead
Radigan
Reilly’s Luck
The Rider of Lost Creek
Rivers West
The Shadow Riders
Shalako
Showdown at Yellow Butte
Silver Canyon
Sitka
Son of a Wanted Man
Taggart
The Tall Stranger
To Tame a Land
Tucker
Under the Sweetwater Rim
Utah Blaine
The Walking Drum
Westward the Tide
Where the Long Grass Blows
SHORT STORY
COLLECTIONS
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains
Bowdrie
Bowdrie’s Law
Buckskin Run
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L’Amour: The Frontier Stories, Volume One
Dutchman’s Flat
End of the Drive
The Hills of Homicide
Law of the Desert Born
Long Ride Home
Lonigan
May There Be a Road
Monument Rock
Night over the Solomons
Off the Mangrove Coast
The Outlaws of Mesquite
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Riding for the Brand
The Strong Shall Live
The Trail to Crazy Man
Valley of the Sun
War Party
West from Singapore
West of Dodge
With These Hands
Yondering
SACKETT TITLES
Sackett’s Land
To the Far Blue Mountains
The Warrior’s Path
Jubal Sackett
Ride the River
The Daybreakers
Sackett
Mojave Crossing
Mustang Man
The Lonely Men
Galloway
Treasure Mountain
Lonely on the Mountain
Ride the Dark Trail
The Sackett Brand
The Sky-Liners
THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS
The Rustlers of West Fork
The Trail to Seven Pines
The Riders of High Rock
Trouble Shooter
NONFICTION
Education of a Wandering Man
Frontier
THE SACKETT COMPANION: A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels
A TRAIL OF MEMORIES: The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique L’Amour
POETRY
Smoke from This Altar
GUNS OF THE TIMBERLANDS
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
This book was originally published under the pseudonym “Jim Mayo.”
Bantam edition published November 1955
Bantam reissue / May 1997
Bantam reissue / July 2004
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1955 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust.
No part
of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address:
Bantam Books, New York, New York.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada
eISBN: 978-0-553-89917-7
v3.0_r3
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
*
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.