Chapter One The two riders on the Deep Creek trail had the morning to themselves. Within the range of their attention nothing moved. The vast sky arched blue and empty to the horizon. Before them the trail was a white, winding line across the face of the desert plain. On both sides of the trail the bunch-grass levels stretched far toward the blue hills, and in the bottoms along Deep Creek were grassy meadows and a scattering of willow and cottonwood. Behind them, looming suddenly from the desert, was isolated Deep Creek Range, a fifty-square-mile group of mountains. Its lower slopes were naked rock or rock clad with the sparse, dry-land brush of the middle desert. Along the crests there appeared at intervals the darker tufts of pine tops. Within the rough circle of Deep Creek Range lay the basin of the creek, a high plateau heavily timbered and slashed by the canyons and valleys of Deep and Cave creeks, carrying a fine stand of virgin timber. The high meadows were rich with grass, well watered and green; the inner slopes of the mountains, except for a few places where lightning-started fires had struck, were thickly clad with ponderosa pine and fir. There was only one road through the Deep Creek Range, a long abandoned trail used by west-bound pioneers and later, briefly, by a stage line. No wagon had used that road in many years, only the riders of the B-Bar. "New folks in town." Bill Coffin volunteered the information after three miles of silence and chill morning. "A good-lookin' blonde." Clay Bell drew on his cigarette, found it dead, and after pinching it to be sure, tossed it into the desert. Here there was no danger of fire but the habit remained from forest living. "A couple of lumberjacks," Coffin added. "And some city man . . . all duded up." "You talk too much." Clay took out the makings and began to build a smoke. He glanced over at Coffin, fine lines of remembered laughter showing at the corners of his eyes. "What would lumberjacks be doing in Tinkersville?" "Search me." Bill Coffin was a lean, strongly built young cowhand, a good man with a rope or horse. "What would a beautiful blonde do there?" "You mean you didn't offer any suggestions?" "No chance. Just seen her, then she was gone." "Smart girl." Tinkersville sprawled in ungainly, clapboarded charm on the flatland near the Creek. One street of false-fronted stores, and a half-dozen streets of dwellings, few of them painted, some of adobe. On the outskirts, near some ancient adobe ruins, three youngsters hunted Indians, and from the shouts of "bang-bang" they were having good hunting. As the two riders neared the outskirts, a big man on a gray horse rode past them, his face stiff. Coffin grinned at Bell. "Schwabe ain't forgot that whippin' you gave him. Looks mighty unhappy with you." The street was lazy and sun-filled. A hen picked at an apple core in front of the general store. A dog lay sprawled in the dust, soaking up sun. Two men in high-heeled boots, hats tipped back, sat on the edge of the boardwalk, another leaned against the post of the ramada smoking a cigarette. He slanted his eyes at them and lifted a negligent hand in greeting. Clay Bell regarded the street with pleasure. He was an easy-going man with the wide shoulders and lean hips of a desert rider, a man who looked cool, competent, and ready, yet one in whom behind the quiet of his eyes the humor lay close to the surface. He wore his gun with the same casual ease that he wore his hat or his shirt. He knew the people in this town and he liked them. He had come here a stranger, now he was a part of something. It had been a long time before that since he had belonged anywhere or to anything. A big man in a plaid wool shi Excerpted from Guns of the Timberlands by Louis L'Amour All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
