Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page B

Gavagan, and it is a fine thing that you do it no better or you’d be turning some poor girl’s head.”
    She put her money on the counter and met the glance of the storekeeper without embarrassment, and then she turned and looked at me in that straight way she had and said, “My uncle is Aaron McDonald, and he looks with no favor upon Texas men.”
    â€œIt is my wish to call on you this night,” I said, “and the choice of whether I come or not belongs to you and no one else.”
    â€œThe house stands among the cottonwoods at the street’s far end.” Then she added, “Come if you will…but it is north of the street.”
    â€œYou can expect me,” I replied.
    And turning upon my heel I walked from the store and heard the storekeeper say, “He is a Texas man, Miss June, and you know about the ordinance as well as anyone!”
    Once more in the sunshine I felt a strength within me that was beyond any I had ever known, and an exhilaration. Lined along the street were fourteen riders. They loitered at the street corners and relaxed on the benches on the walk in front of the barber shop. A group of them waited for me before the saloon. They were my army, battle tested and true. With them I could take on this town or any other.
    Then I saw John Blake.
    He wore a black frock coat and a wide-brimmed black planter’s hat. His guns were out of sight, but they were there, I had no doubt.
    â€œYour men aren’t drinking?” he commented.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œRed Mike,” Blake said. “I remember him well from Abilene, and Tod Mulloy, Rule Carson, and Delgado. You came ready for trouble, Gavagan.”
    â€œThe Comanches were riding, and the Kiowa.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œI will be going north of the street tonight, John, but not for trouble. I was invited.”
    â€œYou know the rule here.” He looked at me carefully from his hooded eyes. “It cannot be.”
    â€œThere are other ways to look, John, and I am not a trouble-hunting man.”
    â€œThe people who live here have passed an ordinance. This is their town and I am charged with enforcing their laws.” He stated this flatly, and then he walked away, and I stood there with a lightness inside me and an awareness of trouble to come.

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    T HE CATTLE WERE checked and sold to Bob Wells. We rode together to the bank and when we went in John Blake stood square on his two feet, watching.
    McDonald was a narrow man, high-shouldered and thin, dry as dust and fleshless. He looked at me and gave a brief nod and counted over the money for the cattle, which was my employer’s money, and none of it mine but wages.
    He watched me put the gold and greenbacks in a sack and he said, “Your business here is finished?”
    â€œI’ve some calls to make.”
    â€œYou are welcome,” he said, “south of the street.”
    â€œTonight I shall come to call on your niece. She has invited me.”
    â€œYou must be mistaken.” He was a cold man with his heart in his ledgers and his dollars. “You are welcome here to do whatever business you have, and beyond that you are not welcome.”
    â€œI am not a drunk, wandering the streets and looking for trouble. I am one who has been entrusted with these two thousand cattle and now, like you, with this money. But, unlike you, I will carry this payment across many dangerous miles back to Texas. My honesty and character are not in question there.”
    â€œMr. McDonald,” Wells protested, “this is a good man. I know this man.”
    â€œWe put up with your kind,” McDonald said, “south of the street.”
    I could see my attempt had been wasted on him. The issue was not character but class. McDonald had decided to put himself above me and there was no chance he’d be seeing it differently.
    â€œFive times I have come over the trail,” I told him, “and I have seen towns