Free The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 by Louis L’Amour

slender body hit the ground rolling, flopped over one last time, and lay sprawled and sightless under the low gray clouds.
    Gary rested his hands on his saddle horn and stared gloomily at the strange little man, so badly miscast in this outlaw venture. Then horsemen closed in around him; his six-guns were jerked from their holsters and his rifle from its scabbard.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?” The voice was harsh. “Won’t that horse of yours run?”
    Jim looked up into a pair of cold gray eyes in a leatherlike face. A neat gray mustache showed above a firm-lipped mouth. Jim Gary smiled, although he had never felt less like it in his life. The horsemen surrounded him, and their guns were ready. “Never was much of a hand to run,” Jim said, “an’ I’ve done nothing’ to run for.”
    â€œYou call murderin’ my brother nothin’? You call stealin’ cattle nothin’? Sorry, friend, we don’t see things alike. I call it hangin’.”
    â€œSo would I, on’y I haven’t done those things. I hired onto this outfit back down the line. Forty bucks to the head of Salt Creek Wash … an’ they ain’t paid me.”
    â€œYou’ll get paid!” The speaker was a lean, hard-faced young man. “With a rope!”
    Another rider, a girl, pushed a horse through the circle. “Who is this man, Uncle Dan? Why didn’t he try to get away?”
    â€œSays he’s just a hired hand,” Uncle Dan commented.
    â€œThat’s probably what that dead man would have said, too!” the lean puncher said. “Let me an’ the boys have him under that cottonwood we seen. It had nice strong limbs.”
    Gary had turned his head to look at the girl. Uncle Dan would be Dan Blaze, and this must be the daughter of the murdered man. She was tall and slim, but rounded of limb and undeniably attractive, with color in her cheeks and a few scattered freckles over her nose. Her eyes were hazel and now looked hard and stormy.
    â€œDid you folks find Tom Blaze’s body?” he asked. “They left him back yonder.” Lifting a hand carefully to his shirt pocket he drew out the envelope and tally sheets. “These were his.”
    â€œWhat more do you need?” The lean puncher demanded. He pushed his horse against Jim’s and grabbed at the buckskin’s bridle. “Come on, boys!”
    â€œTake it easy, Jerry!” Dan Blaze said sharply. “When I want him hung, I’ll say so.” His eyes shifted back to Jim. “You’re a mighty cool customer,” he said. “If your story’s straight, what are you doing with these?”
    As briefly as possible, Jim explained the whole situation and ended by saying, “What could I do? I still had forty bucks comin’, an’ I did my work, so I aim to collect.”
    â€œYou say there were three men with the herd? And the two who got away were Tobe Langer and Red Slagle?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Jim hesitated over Mart Ray and then said no more.
    Blaze was staring at the herd, and now he looked at Jim. “Why were these cattle branded Double A? That’s a straight outfit. You know anything about that?”
    Gary hesitated. Much as he had reason to believe Ray was not only one of these men but their leader, he hated to betray him. “Not much. I don’t know any of these outfits. I’m a Texas man.”
    Blaze smiled wryly. “You sound it. What’s your handle?”
    â€œJim Gary.”
    The puncher named Jerry started as if struck. “Jim Gary?” he gasped, his voice incredulous. “The one who killed Sonoma?”
    â€œYeah, I reckon.”
    Now they were all staring at him with new interest, for the two fights he had were ample to start his name growing a legend on the plains and desert. These punchers had heard of him, probably from some grub-line rider or drifting