Guns Of the Timberlands (1955) by L'amour Louis

Author:L'amour, Louis [Louis, L'amour,]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-12-12T06:26:19.843000+00:00

"Yes . . . you remember the stories of the old Vikings? How they went berserk in battle? Clay's like that. He can be a cold, methodical, dangerous fighter up to a point, and then he goes completely hog-wild and reckless. Like the other night when he charged that campfire. The man would charge hell with a bucket of water."

"You like him, don't you?"

"Like him?" Dr. McClean paused briefly. "You bet I do."

Chapter 11

Unable to sleep, Clay Bell was out of bed before the first light touched the tip of Piety. He got into his jeans and struggled into his boots. From where he sat on the edge of the bed he could look down the dark valley where the only light was the thin white streak of the trail to Tinkersville.

He sat very still, feeling the silence. He must get into town and see Garry.

Straightening to his feet, he walked outside and splashed cold water over the upper half of his body, then dipped his head in the bucket and dried himself with a rough towel. He was combing his hair when he heard a door slam and then the splash of water. Mahafee was up and busy.

Clay got into his shirt, and buckled on his gun belts. From the veranda he looked down valley, but there was as yet no light near the camp of Devitt's men. He crossed the hard-packed earth of the ranchyard, feeling the cold air coming down the pass. A rectangle of light showed at the kitchen window.

He gathered an armful of wood and carried it into the kitchen and dumped it into the box. Mahafee dried his hands on his apron and picked up the coffee pot. Without speaking, he filled a thick white mug with coffee and put it on the table. The kitchen smelled of woodsmoke, steam, and the fresh coffee. There was a comforting warmth from the woodstove.

Mahafee never talked at this hour and Bell respected the cook's feelings. Sitting down at the oilcloth-covered table, Bell tried to assay his position. Early morning, the kitchen sounds, and the warm fire seemed to help him think. He must have supplies, and if the fight were to continue he must have more hands, men who would fight. And who could fight.

The black coffee was scalding hot. He touched it to his lips, then took it hastily away. Putting the cup down, he looked at his hands. He flexed the fingers on his right hand, feeling no pain. His shoulder was better, but far from well.

It was no use to think or plan now. So much depended on what Devitt did. Bell was irritated at leaving the initiative to him, but there was nothing else to do. And when he thought of Devitt his thoughts inevitably turned to Colleen.

It was impossible that she could love the man--yet why not? Love did strange things to people, and Devitt was a handsome man, if an obviously selfish one. Did she know he was entirely self-centered? Because he knew, that was no evidence that she perceived it.

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