The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online Page A

guard’s water bottle, drank also. Otteson made a motion of drinking, but Isager watched his Adam’s apple. It did not move.
    Isager was a lean man, not tall, and narrow of jaw and cheekbone. He weighed one hundred and fifty pounds and carried no ounce of fat. He had been sent to Yuma after killing a marshal, which would have been his sixth notch if he had been a man for carving notches. It was noteworthy that in selecting a weapon he had taken a pistol. Isager was nothing if not practical. The pistol was his favorite weapon, and the four would be close together. By the time they had spread out to where a rifle might be useful, he would have a rifle. Of that he was positive.
    Rodelo knew nothing of the desert but much of men. When younger he had sailed to the West Coast of Africa and had seen men die of the sun. He had replaced the bandanna that covered his head when working in the prison yard with a hat stolen from the livery, knowing the sun would be vicious on their shaven skulls. They depended upon Otteson, and he was not to be trusted. Isager alone he respected: he liked none of them. Rydberg did not guess what the others knew—that they would soon be minus a man.
    They walked their horses now. Behind them was no dust, but pursuit was certain. It was the Indians who worried them, for fifty dollars was a lot of money to an Indian. Two hundred dollars for them all.
    The air wavered and changed before them, seeming to flow and billow with heat waves. On their right was the Gila Range, and the desert grew more rugged. Otteson watched when Rydberg drank, when he passed his hand over his bare skull, saw him put water on his head. Otteson was complacent, confident.
    Isager’s mouth was dry, but he did not touch the canteen. A mere swallow at dusk could do more good than a bucket now. He watched the others with cat eyes. Rydberg took another pull. The heat baked the desert and reflected in their faces like heat from a hot stove. Twice they stopped for rest, and each time it was Otteson and Isager who stopped in what little shade there was. Rydberg swayed as he dismounted.
    â€œHot!” he gasped. “How much farther to water?”
    â€œNot far.” Otteson looked at Rydberg’s horse. It was the best.
    Isager took water from his canteen and wiped out his horse’s mouth and nostrils. Rodelo thought this was a good idea and did likewise.
    â€œLet’s wait until dark,” Rydberg suggested. “I’m hot. My head aches. That sun is killing me.”
    â€œYou want to get caught by them Injuns? Or them laws from Yuma?”
    They moved on, and Rydberg’s skull was pocked with sun blisters. The dust grew thicker, the air was dead, the desert a pink and red reflector for the sun. Rydberg swayed drunkenly, and Rodelo swore mentally and reflected that it must be 120 degrees or more.
    Rydberg began to mutter. He pulled at his dry canteen. He tried again, shook it, and there was no sound. Otteson looked straight before him. Isager said nothing, and only Rodelo looked around as the man swayed drunkenly in his saddle.
    â€œI’m out of water,” Rydberg said. “How about a drink?”
    â€œOn the desert,” Otteson said, “each man drinks his own water. You’ll have to wait.”
    The dust and sun and thirst turned their world into a red hell of heat waves and blurred blue mountains. The hooves of their horses dragged. Rydberg muttered, and once he croaked a snatch of song. He mumbled through thin, cracked lips, and the weird face above the scraggly neck became even more buzzardlike. His skull was fiery red now, and it bobbed strangely as he weakened. Suddenly he shouted hoarsely and pointed off across the desert.
    â€œWater!” he gabbled. “Water, over there!”
    â€œMirage,” Rodelo said, and the others were silent, riding.
    â€œGimme a drink.” Rydberg rode at Otteson and grabbed at his canteen.
    The big man moved his horse away,