sounds.
Far off across the basin, a last dust devil died in the valley, and a cool wind came down from the peaks, rich with the smell of cedar and pine.
Dandy Burke guided the six horses as if they were one, easing the coach over the worst of the bumps, rolling into the dips, walking up the slopes beyond.
He pointed toward the mountains with his whipstock. "I'm going into those hills someday, and I'm going to stay. I'm going to trace one of those canyons back to the high country beyond, and make myself a home there."
"I've been thinking of it, too."
"You eat dust for twenty years, you eat it behind trail drives and stagecoach teams, and finally you've had enough. I want to go where there's tall pines and cool water. I've had enough of alkali and dodging lead."
"I've found a place I'm thinking about, back there near the foot of Jeff Davis," Matt said. `Where's always water."
"You ought to find you self a woman. A man should marry, Matt, and you should."
"Why me?"
Burke lifted the reins and let the horses trot down an easy slope. "You're getting mean, Matt. You've lived with a gun too long."
"What was I supposed to do? Let Bob Longer jump me in a saloon some day? Or take a shot at me in the dark? I could read it in him. He had to kill me ... and he'd have tried. Then or later."
They were silent then, and after a while, Coburn took out his pipe. "You're right, Dandy," he said. I'm too touchy. I've seen it building up in me, but I sleep with a gun, I eat with a gun in my lap, I never take a step without one. I never go to sleep at night that I don't expect to wake up shooting. And I almost never sleep in the same place twice ... not if I can help it."
'I know," Burke said. And he did know. He had seen it In Matt, and in others, too. It was easier to give the advice than to carry it out. Once you've lived that life, once you've had it to think about, you never quite lose the feeling.
It was like hunting Apaches, or traveling in Apache country, and Matt Coburn had lived that life too. You learned never to sleep soundly, no matter how tired you were. You learned to cook your food, put out your fire, and move on a few miles before settling down for the night. You learned to look for shadows where shadows should not be, to watch for the out-of-the-way thing, to expect the unexpected.
The day passed, and a long night, and then another day. The trails were dusty, the passengers tired, and short-tempered.
While the horses rested at the top of a steep grade, the passengers got down to stretch their legs. The country was wide open in all directions. Dandy Burke checked his harness and the horses, then bit off a chew of tobacco.
Matt Coburn found himself standing beside Madge Healy. 'Where are we going to stop, Mater she asked. "I mean, so we can rest a littler "In Eureka," he said.
"It's a lively place. I played the opera house there. And I played it a few years before that when the stage was four planks laid over some barrels."
"Why did you quit"
"I just got tired of it, Matt. I wanted a home so bad! cried myself to sleep many a night I used to hide money the miners threw to me, and whenever my aunt found it, she'd whip me. But! still did it.
"Once, when I was only fifteen, I grubstaked a prospector I met in Austin. Everybody was turning him down ... I heard them and felt sorry for him. I grubstaked him with just thirty dollars I'd held out, and later I sent him forty more."
"Did you ever see him again?"
She smiled. "That prospector's name was Charley Ramona," she said quietly. "He struck it pretty good, sold out, bought stock in the Denver & Rio Grande, and made a mint of money."
"How did you make out?"
She looked up at Matt. "I own half of it," she said, smiling at him. 'Willard & Kingsbury don't know that, Matt When they picked a fight with me they thought I was just a little girl with a fluttery head. I didn't ask for the fight, but I'll own them before I'm through, Matt, and that's the first boast lever made,!
Far off across the basin, a last dust devil died in the valley, and a cool wind came down from the peaks, rich with the smell of cedar and pine.
Dandy Burke guided the six horses as if they were one, easing the coach over the worst of the bumps, rolling into the dips, walking up the slopes beyond.
He pointed toward the mountains with his whipstock. "I'm going into those hills someday, and I'm going to stay. I'm going to trace one of those canyons back to the high country beyond, and make myself a home there."
"I've been thinking of it, too."
"You eat dust for twenty years, you eat it behind trail drives and stagecoach teams, and finally you've had enough. I want to go where there's tall pines and cool water. I've had enough of alkali and dodging lead."
"I've found a place I'm thinking about, back there near the foot of Jeff Davis," Matt said. `Where's always water."
"You ought to find you self a woman. A man should marry, Matt, and you should."
"Why me?"
Burke lifted the reins and let the horses trot down an easy slope. "You're getting mean, Matt. You've lived with a gun too long."
"What was I supposed to do? Let Bob Longer jump me in a saloon some day? Or take a shot at me in the dark? I could read it in him. He had to kill me ... and he'd have tried. Then or later."
They were silent then, and after a while, Coburn took out his pipe. "You're right, Dandy," he said. I'm too touchy. I've seen it building up in me, but I sleep with a gun, I eat with a gun in my lap, I never take a step without one. I never go to sleep at night that I don't expect to wake up shooting. And I almost never sleep in the same place twice ... not if I can help it."
'I know," Burke said. And he did know. He had seen it In Matt, and in others, too. It was easier to give the advice than to carry it out. Once you've lived that life, once you've had it to think about, you never quite lose the feeling.
It was like hunting Apaches, or traveling in Apache country, and Matt Coburn had lived that life too. You learned never to sleep soundly, no matter how tired you were. You learned to cook your food, put out your fire, and move on a few miles before settling down for the night. You learned to look for shadows where shadows should not be, to watch for the out-of-the-way thing, to expect the unexpected.
The day passed, and a long night, and then another day. The trails were dusty, the passengers tired, and short-tempered.
While the horses rested at the top of a steep grade, the passengers got down to stretch their legs. The country was wide open in all directions. Dandy Burke checked his harness and the horses, then bit off a chew of tobacco.
Matt Coburn found himself standing beside Madge Healy. 'Where are we going to stop, Mater she asked. "I mean, so we can rest a littler "In Eureka," he said.
"It's a lively place. I played the opera house there. And I played it a few years before that when the stage was four planks laid over some barrels."
"Why did you quit"
"I just got tired of it, Matt. I wanted a home so bad! cried myself to sleep many a night I used to hide money the miners threw to me, and whenever my aunt found it, she'd whip me. But! still did it.
"Once, when I was only fifteen, I grubstaked a prospector I met in Austin. Everybody was turning him down ... I heard them and felt sorry for him. I grubstaked him with just thirty dollars I'd held out, and later I sent him forty more."
"Did you ever see him again?"
She smiled. "That prospector's name was Charley Ramona," she said quietly. "He struck it pretty good, sold out, bought stock in the Denver & Rio Grande, and made a mint of money."
"How did you make out?"
She looked up at Matt. "I own half of it," she said, smiling at him. 'Willard & Kingsbury don't know that, Matt When they picked a fight with me they thought I was just a little girl with a fluttery head. I didn't ask for the fight, but I'll own them before I'm through, Matt, and that's the first boast lever made,!
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