Sacketts 10 - The Sackett Brand by L'Amour Louis

Author:L'Amour, Louis [L'Amour, Louis]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Louis L'Amour
Published: 2010-12-10T00:00:00+00:00

The lone sheepherder paused on the knoll to let the rest of the flock drift past him. He watched his dogs for a minute or two, then his eyes were drawn to the west. The sun was just below the horizon and the red rock cliffs were weirdly lit. Out of the west a tiny puff of dust lifted, grew, and became a fast-running horse.

The rider pulled up, his horse rearing with the sudden stop. "Howdy, Mex! You got any grub to spare? I'm a right hungry man."

"Si, Señor." He pointed toward his camp. "There are frijoles."

The rider wheeled his horse and walked him toward the camp. As they came near the spring the horse tugged toward it, but his rider held him back. "You take it easy, boy. Cool off a mite."

He dropped the reins and walked toward the fire where the blackened coffeepot stood.

The Mexican looked thoughtfully at the horseman. He was a big man, towering well above the Mexican, and he was strongly made. His nose had been broken in more than one fight, and there was a wild, reckless, uncurried look about him.

His black hair hung around his ears, there was a bullet hole in the crown of his hat. He wore two guns, and wore them tied down for action. His buckskin shirt was dark from dust and sweat. His boots were run down at the heel, but he wore jingling spurs with huge rowels, California spurs.

He glanced toward the sheep pens and the corral beyond where several horses stood "You own those horses?"

"No, Señor. The patron."

"Who's he?"

"Don Manuel Ochoa. He is in Santa Fe, Señor."

"Tell him Nolan Sackett needed a horse. I'm taking the sorrel."

The sheepherder looked again at the shaggy, unkempt rider and the guns. "Si, Señor. I will tell him."

When Nolan Sackett went to catch up the sorrel and switch saddles, the sheepherder looked in the bean pot. It was empty. So was the coffeepot, and the tortillas were gone too.

Nolan Sackett walked the sorrel back to camp to make the change of saddles, and then dug down in his pocket and took out a four-bit piece. He glanced at the half-dollar.

"Mex," he said, "that's all I got, but I owe you for the grub. It was mighty tasty."

"You owe me nothing, Señor. I am honored." The Mexican hesitated, and then said, "You are a brother to Señor Tyrel, perhaps?"

"Cousin, you might say." Nolan glanced quizzically at the sheepherder. "You know Tyrel?"

"No, Señor, but it is known that he is a good man, and a friend to Mexicans." The sheepherder paused. "Señor, the half-dollar ... it is not much" He hesitated again. "Would the señor . . . perhaps a loan?" He extended a gold eagle.

Nolan Sackett, whom not many things could astonish, was astonished now - astonished and touched. He looked at the old Mexican. "You don't know me, old man. And I might never come this way again."

The old man shrugged.

"I can't lay claim to goodness, old man. I'm a Clinch Mountain Sackett, and we've the name of being rough folk.

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