Mustang Man (1966) by Louis - Sackett's 15 L'amour Read Free Book Online

lived there had learned to be wary of them, too. It was a wild, rough land, and the few men who rode there were often wild, rough men.
    Swinging down in front of the cantina I tied the dun and, ducking my head, went through the door. There was a bar about twenty feet long, and four tables with chairs around them. A fat Mexican in a white shirt stood behind the bar, his forearms on the bar. Two leather-chapped vaqueros stood near him, drinking. At one of the tables sat two older men, one with white hair.
    The room was small, immaculate, and cool, with that sense of spaciousness one gets from Mexican building. All eyes turned on me, a big, dusty, travel-stained man. I went up to the bar, and ordered a drink.
    "You have come far, senor?"
    "Too far ... ran into a war party of Kiowas."
    "You were fortunate. You are still alive."
    "No figuring on Indians. I rode right through them. Nobody lifted a hand."
    They exchanged glances. It took nerve to ride through a bunch of Kiowas, and they knew that if I'd shown any weakness I would be dead now. But nobody knew how scared I'd been, and I wasn't planning on telling them.
    "You will be hungry, senor? If you will sit down my wife will bring food to you."
    "Gracias." I walked over to a table and dropped wearily into a chair, then I removed my hat and ran my fingers through my hair. I could have fallen asleep right there.
    The senora brought a plate of beans, beef, and tortillas to the table, and a pot of coffee. It was late, and the others drifted out to go home. The Mexican came out from behind the bar and sat down and filled a cup with fresh coffee.
    "I am called Pio.... You want a place to stay?"
    "No ... I've slept out so long I'd never be able to sleep inside. I'll go out under the trees."
    "You won't have trouble. Those who live here are good people."
    "Are there any other strangers around?"
    "There was a man ... he rode through here yesterday but he wasn't around long.
    He acted as if somebody was following him."
    He looked up into my eyes but I grinned at him. "You got me wrong. I ain't after anybody. I'm just riding north, going up to Romero, and then if things look good, maybe over to the Colorado mines."
    He was skeptical, I could see that, but he was a good man, and he was willing to wait for any further information.
    Me, I knew better than to start anything in these quiet little places. They were quiet because they were left alone. The men here, each man in each house, had a buffalo gun and he could shoot. Each man in this town had fought Indians, renegades, and whoever wanted a fight. If a man started trouble in one of these little western towns he was setting himself up at the end of a shooting gallery.
    Moreover, it was an even-money bet that Pio knew about the shooting down country. News like that travels fast.
    After I'd eaten and had drunk a quart of coffee, I went outside and led my horse into the trees and beyond them to the meadow. Then, stripping off the saddle, I gave him a careful rubdown while he fed on a bait of corn I'd gotten from Pio.
    Western horses got mighty little corn, but that dun had it coming; and thinking of him made me think kindly of that old man back there who had given him to me.
    Before this, I hadn't dared to strip the saddle from him for fear I might have to light out again, to light a shuck, as the saying was.
    It was a quiet night. I could hear the rustle of the cottonwood leaves, and sometimes heard subdued sounds from the plaza. There was a coyote out on the knoll making music at the stars. Rolled up in my blankets, two of them, atop my poncho, I slept like a baby ... a baby who'd never known a night in his life when there mightn't be trouble.
    Sunup was a rare fine thing. Washing my face in the water that poured into the horse trough, I glanced over at the buckboard standing in front of the cantina.
    A Mexican was hitching a fresh team to the buckboard, and the rattle of the trace chains was the only sound in the little street, shaded by