Rivers West by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online

of tools, my pack, and the wooden leg of Jambe-de-Bois.
    He looked and smelled of horses, so I walked past him to the inn, then stopped and walked back. “Is it a place for a working man?” I asked him. “Are the prices asked not too strong?”
    â€œReasonable,” he commented, “reasonable.” He glanced at my load. “It takes a man of muscle to carry the load,” he said.
    â€œAye,” I agreed. “I bargained for a mule, but the cost was dear, and cheaper it be to carry the load m’self.”
    â€œIt’s a way of thinkin’,” he agreed, but I could see that he was of no mind to carry any such loads and thought me a fool for doing so.
    We entered the inn and seated ourselves near the window. Jambe went to the window that opened into the kitchen and asked for ale.
    The proprietor brought it, and I paid him at once. He glanced at the coins in my hand. He nodded toward the road. “Tis a rough road for shank’s mare,” he said. “You should have a horse or two.”
    â€œDear,” I said, “a horse is too dear.”
    â€œYou could sell it when we get where were going,” Jambe suggested.
    â€œYes, I could that, but I have no horse and I doubt much if this village has a horse for sale, or a mule.”
    The large-bellied man then came into the inn and glanced our way. He sniffed business, and it had probably been some days since he had turned a deal that netted him profit.
    The proprietor and the horse dealer were friends. No doubt one would often turn a bit of business to the other.
    The horse dealer walked over to our table with a mug of cider in his fist. He pulled around a chair and straddled it so he could lean on the back. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.
    I grinned at him. “You already have, but seeing you brought your own drink, you’re welcome.”
    The dealer chuckled. “You’d not buy me a drink then?”
    â€œWhen a man comes to sell me a horse, I think he should buy the drinks.”
    The dealer chuckled again. “Wise, ain’t you? Well, young feller, I’m not saying I’d refuse a deal. And a fine, prosperous-looking lad like yourself…well, it’s a bit rough for you to walk the country carrying such a load of tools.”
    â€œI’m strong.”
    â€œAye,” the dealer admitted, noting the depth of my chest and my broad, powerfully muscled shoulders. Muscles swelled my rough shirt. The bulges of my deltoids were like melons. “Aye,” he repeated. “I can see that.”
    He continued to look me over.
    â€œWe’ve a couple of powerful lads about here. Too bad you’re only passing. We might arrange us a bout of wrestling.” The dealer suddenly narrowed his eyes: “You do wrestle?”
    â€œWell—” I hesitated, long enough to seem doubtful, “I suppose I could. I am strong,” I added, a bit uncertainly. No reason to let him know I’d thrown everybody who could wrestle in Quebec and Nova Scotia, and a few in Newfoundland. There’s a good bit of friendly grappling done in seaport towns, and in going from one to the other, there’d been fairs and such. Often I’d wrestled, just testing my strength.
    Of course, I’d had good training. I’d had the best, in fact, for it was a tradition in our family since the first Talon, that hard old man who founded the family and who had learned his grappling in India, China, and Japan. He’d only had one hand, but it was said he never lost.
    He had trained his sons well, and in a hard, hard school. Even in his old age there was no softness in the man. And father and son since, they’d learned too.
    Cornish-style wrestling, also, and something of the boxing they do in Britain. But there was no need to say aught of that.
    â€œThere’s those about always ready for a bit of sport,” the dealer commented, “and there’s a local