Flint (1960) by Louis L'amour Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L'amour
his own gear on it. carefully, he swept, then built a small fire and made tea. When he had his tea and some hot broth he went to the door and sat down on the stoop, looking out over the hollow.
This was the place. It was here he was going to die.
Chapter 4
The man called Kettleman sat on the step of the rock house and looked out over the shadowing acres of green. He listened to the wind in the pines, and smelled the freshness of the high, cool air. Something stirred deep within him, something forgotten.
He had followed the lone trails, the ancient trails, the silent and mysterious trails with Flint. Wherever that strange and silent man wished to go, he seemed to know a hidden way to travel. For days on end they had ridden without speaking, their campfires surrounded by a vast and empty stillness.
He remembered the pungent smell of cedar, the smokiness of damp wood, the crisp crackle of pine, the deep red glow of dying fires, the sound of wind in the mesquite. How many fires had he fed with wood or buffalo chips? He had traveled the far rim of civilization, moving like a ghost across lands known only to roaming Indians.
Three years. Never once had Flint told him what they were about. Always he was left far behind to care for their horses and wait. Suddenly then, Flint would ride up and they would shift saddles and be gone again.
For Flint never directed his steps toward the saloons and gambling houses. After the jobs he did they would ride away into the wildest, most remote country, and then, sometimes, Flint would talk for long hours of the desert, the mountains, of how to survive under all conditions and how to live.
Kettleman got slowly to his feet and walked down to the water. He stood there, watching it chuckling over the stones. The gnawing in his stomach was always there now. There was but little time left.
Yet already some of the quietness of this place was seeping into him. The tension was going out of him, his muscles were mysteriously relaxing.
It was long after the stars came out before he slept, and then for a time he was dreamless, but he awakened, and sat up in the chill night and lighted his pipe. He walked to the door, and the air felt strangely damp, the stars very clear. He listened into the night, but heard no sound.
That girl on the train. He remembered the clear, honest way she had looked at him, the grace of her movements. Why had he not met such a girl when he was still alive?
For now he would die, like a wolf as he had lived, a lone wolf, in a dark place, snapping at his wounds. He had lived with bared teeth, and it was proper that he die that way.
That Gaddis now, Kettleman reflected. He liked the fellow. He had a slow, easy, half-amused way of talking that Kettleman liked.
There was a fight building. The straw-haired man on the train -- a warrior if he had ever seen one.
And suddenly then he thought of Porter Baldwin.
A shrewd, tough, dangerous man. A promoter. Hardly a Western man, but one who never moved without a purpose, and one with considerable experience in the knock-down and drag-out world of finance. He had been a blockade runner during the Civil War, running cotton and rifles through to the Confederate side, and selling information to the North.
He had been involved in the efforts to corner the gold market that Jim Fisk and Jay Gould had supposedly started.
If Porter Baldwin was out here, it was not because of cattle. There was money in cattle and they might be a side line for Baldwin, but he would not involve himself personally unless there was more behind it than the profits from cattle.
Well, it was no business of his. He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and went inside. When he awakened the sun was high, and it was the first good night's sleep he had had in a long time.
The gnawing pain was in his stomach, so he got out of bed and prepared a light breakfast. He moved slowly, taking his time about everything. As he ate, he planned his day. He must first of all find
This was the place. It was here he was going to die.
Chapter 4
The man called Kettleman sat on the step of the rock house and looked out over the shadowing acres of green. He listened to the wind in the pines, and smelled the freshness of the high, cool air. Something stirred deep within him, something forgotten.
He had followed the lone trails, the ancient trails, the silent and mysterious trails with Flint. Wherever that strange and silent man wished to go, he seemed to know a hidden way to travel. For days on end they had ridden without speaking, their campfires surrounded by a vast and empty stillness.
He remembered the pungent smell of cedar, the smokiness of damp wood, the crisp crackle of pine, the deep red glow of dying fires, the sound of wind in the mesquite. How many fires had he fed with wood or buffalo chips? He had traveled the far rim of civilization, moving like a ghost across lands known only to roaming Indians.
Three years. Never once had Flint told him what they were about. Always he was left far behind to care for their horses and wait. Suddenly then, Flint would ride up and they would shift saddles and be gone again.
For Flint never directed his steps toward the saloons and gambling houses. After the jobs he did they would ride away into the wildest, most remote country, and then, sometimes, Flint would talk for long hours of the desert, the mountains, of how to survive under all conditions and how to live.
Kettleman got slowly to his feet and walked down to the water. He stood there, watching it chuckling over the stones. The gnawing in his stomach was always there now. There was but little time left.
Yet already some of the quietness of this place was seeping into him. The tension was going out of him, his muscles were mysteriously relaxing.
It was long after the stars came out before he slept, and then for a time he was dreamless, but he awakened, and sat up in the chill night and lighted his pipe. He walked to the door, and the air felt strangely damp, the stars very clear. He listened into the night, but heard no sound.
That girl on the train. He remembered the clear, honest way she had looked at him, the grace of her movements. Why had he not met such a girl when he was still alive?
For now he would die, like a wolf as he had lived, a lone wolf, in a dark place, snapping at his wounds. He had lived with bared teeth, and it was proper that he die that way.
That Gaddis now, Kettleman reflected. He liked the fellow. He had a slow, easy, half-amused way of talking that Kettleman liked.
There was a fight building. The straw-haired man on the train -- a warrior if he had ever seen one.
And suddenly then he thought of Porter Baldwin.
A shrewd, tough, dangerous man. A promoter. Hardly a Western man, but one who never moved without a purpose, and one with considerable experience in the knock-down and drag-out world of finance. He had been a blockade runner during the Civil War, running cotton and rifles through to the Confederate side, and selling information to the North.
He had been involved in the efforts to corner the gold market that Jim Fisk and Jay Gould had supposedly started.
If Porter Baldwin was out here, it was not because of cattle. There was money in cattle and they might be a side line for Baldwin, but he would not involve himself personally unless there was more behind it than the profits from cattle.
Well, it was no business of his. He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and went inside. When he awakened the sun was high, and it was the first good night's sleep he had had in a long time.
The gnawing pain was in his stomach, so he got out of bed and prepared a light breakfast. He moved slowly, taking his time about everything. As he ate, he planned his day. He must first of all find
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