West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) by Louis L'amour

handful of hay he wiped the snow and damp from the horse. After he had filled the manger with hay and put a little corn in the feed box, Hurley went to the house.
    The single room was square and well built. The plank floor was an unusual feature in a soddy, and it was fitted well. Clothing hung on a row of pegs in the wall, and against the end wall there were four bunks in two tiers, but only one held bedding. There was a glowing kitchen range, and on top of it a teakettle.
    The old man was very tall, his wide, thin shoulders slightly stooped, his face deeply lined under the high cheekbones. The furrows in his cheeks seemed to make him look even more grim and determined. He had started to warm some food.
    "No weather to travel." Hurley cupped the coffee the old man offered him in his two hands. "Unexpected storm."
    "That's fool talk. This time of year a body can expect any kind of weather."
    Hurley pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. The chair sat even on the floor, as did the table; both were well made. There was no arguing with the man's comment, for Hurley knew it to be true. "My name is Hurley," he said.
    The old man filled his own cup and glanced over the rim at Hurley. "I'm Benton," he said. "What are you run-nin' from?"
    Hurley stiffened, half angry. He started to protest, but Benton ignored him.
    "No man would be caught this far from the settlements without an outfit unless he was runnin' from something, or somebody."
    Hurley did not reply. He accepted the offered stew sullenly. He did not like the implication that he was running away.
    "I shot a man back there." He tried to make it sound bigger than it was. He wanted to impress this old man, to get under his hide.
    "If he's dead, there's no use to run. If he ain't dead, you better improve your shootin'."
    "He was a Talbot . . . with four brothers."
    "I know those Talbots," Benton replied. "They're a pack of coyotes."
    They ate in silence for several minutes. Hurley stared glumly at his coffee. Benton made it sound petty, like nothing at all. Hurley's killing had made no impression, and the Talbots obviously did not impress him.
    "Did you leave anything back there?"
    "Yes," Hurley admitted, "I left a good ranch, and a good crop of corn standing, and oats growing. A few head of cattle."
    "Where you runnin' to?"
    "I never gave it much thought," Hurley admitted. "There were four of them, all rated tough men."
    "Were you runnin' when you came out here, too?"
    Hurley put down his knife and fork. "Now, see here--!"
    Benton never looked up. "A man starts runnin', he doesn't stop. If you run once, you'll run again. Probably you never had as much in your life as you left back there, but you cut out and ran. All right . . . something else happens, you'll run again."
    Hurley's features flushed with anger. Who did this old fool think he was? If it hadn't been for the storm he would have taken his horse and ridden on. "There were four of them," he repeated.
    "You said that before, and it don't cut no ice. You didn't even meet up with them. Take it from me, you get four men together and one of them has to take the lead, and nobody wants to be that one. I'd rather face four men any time than one real tough man." "Easy to talk."
    Benton went to the stove for the coffeepot. "You get yourself a shotgun. You go back there and you walk right in on them. You don't give them any chance to talk, you just tell them if they want trouble they've got it and to cut loose their wolf. They'll back down so fast it will make your head swim."
    "And if they don't?"
    "Then shoot 'em."
    Hurley snorted contemptuously. This old man living out here like a hermit . . . what did he know?
    "A man who won't fight for what's his ain't much account," Benton said. "You take it from me."
    Hurley started to rise from the table. He was mad clear through.
    Benton looked up, his hard eyes level and cold. "You set down, Mr. Hurley. Just set down. I ain't about to be scared of no man who can be run clean out of