FREE "TREASURE OF THE RUBY HILLS" WESTERN MOVIE BASED ON LOUIS L'AMOUR'S NOVEL "RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS"
Starring Zachary Scott, Lola Albright, Barton MacLane, Raymond Hatton, Lee Van Cleef, and Glenn Strange.
CLICK HERE TO READ L'AMOUR'S ORIGINAL, UNCUT MAGAZINE VERSION THAT INSPIRED THE MOVIE - ONLY $2.99 IN KINDLE
READ CHAPTER 1 OF "THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS" L'AMOUR NOVEL THAT INSPIRED THE MOVIE
THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS
Chapter One
There
was a lonely place where the trail ran up to the sky. It turned sharply left on
the very point of a lofty promontory overlooking the long sweep of the valley
below. Here the trail offered to the passerby a vision at this hour. Rosy-tipped
peaks and distant purple mountains could be seen, beyond the far reach of the
tall-grass range. Upon the very lip of the rocky shelf sat a solitary horseman.
He was a man tall in the saddle, astride a strangely marked horse. Its head was
held high, its ears were pricked forward with attention riveted upon the
valley, as though in tune with the thoughts of its rider. Thoughts that said
there lay a new country, with new dangers, new rewards, and new trails.
The
rider was a tall man, narrow-hipped and powerful of chest and shoulder. His
features were blunt and rugged, so that a watcher might have said: “Here is a
man who is not handsome, but a fighter.” Yet he was good-looking in his own
hard, confident way. He looked now as Cortez might have looked upon a valley in
Mexico.
He
came alone and penniless, but he did not come as one seeking favors. He did not
come hunting a job. He came as a conqueror. For Ross Haney had made his
decision. At twenty-seven he was broke. He sat in the middle of all he owned, a
splendid Appaloosa gelding, a fine California saddle, a .44 Winchester rifle,
and two walnut-stocked Colt .44 pistols. These were his all. Behind him was a
life that had taken him from a cradle in a covered wagon to the hurricane deck
of many a hardheaded bronco.
It
was a life that had left him rich in experience, but poor in goods of the
world. The experience was the hard-fisted experience of cold winters, dry
ranges, and the dusty bitterness of cattle drives. He had fought Comanches and
rustlers, hunted buffalo and horse thieves. Now he was going to ride for
himself, to fight for himself.
His
keen, dark eyes from under the flat black brim of his hat studied the country
below with speculative glint. His judgment of terrain would have done credit to
a general, and in his own way Ross Haney was a general. His arrival in the Ruby
Valley country was in its way an invasion.
He
was a young man with a purpose. He did not want wealth but a ranch, a
well-watered ranch in a good stock country. That his pockets were empty did not
worry him, for he had made up his mind, and, as men had discovered before this,
Ross Haney with his mind made up was a force to be reckoned with. Nor was he
riding blindly into a strange land. Like a good tactician he had gathered his
information carefully, judged the situation, the terrain, and the enemy before
he began his move.
This
was a new country to him, but he knew the landmarks and the personalities. He
knew the strength and the weaknesses of its rulers, knew the economic factors
of their existence, knew the stresses and the strains within it. He knew that
he rode into a valley at war – that blood had been shed, and that armed men
rode its trails day and night. Into this land he rode a man alone, determined
to have his own from the country, come what may, letting the chips fall where
they might.
With
a movement of his body he turned the gelding left down the trail into the
pines, a trail where at this late hour it would soon be dark, a trail somber,
majestic in its stillness under the columned trees.
As
he moved under the trees, he removed his hat and rode slowly. It was good
country, a country where a man could live and grow, and where, if he was lucky,
he might have sons to grow tall and straight beside him. This he wanted. He
wanted his own hearth fire, the creak of his own pump, the heads of his own
horses looking over the gate bars for his hand to feed them. He wanted peace,
and for it he came to a land at war.
A
flicker of light caught his eye, and the faint smell of wood smoke. He turned
the gelding toward the fire, and, when he was near, he swung down. The sun’s
last rays lay bright through the pines upon this spot. The earth was trampled
by hoofs, and in the fire itself the ashes were gray but for one tiny flame
that thrust a bright spear upward from the end of a stick.
Studying
the scene, his eyes held for an instant on one place where the parched grass
had been blackened in a perfect ring. His eyes glinted with hard humor. A
cinch-ring artist. Dropped her there to cool and she singed the grass. A pretty
smooth gent, I’d say. Not slick enough, of course. A smarter man, or a less
confident one, would have pulled up that handful of blackened grass and tossed
it into the flames.
There
had been two men here, his eyes told him. Two men and two horses. One of the
men had been a big man with small feet. The impressions of his feet were deeper
and he had mounted the largest horse.
Curious,
he studied the scene. This was a new country for him and it behooved a man to
know the local customs. He grinned at the thought. If cinch-ring branding was
one of the local customs, it was a strange one. In most sections of the country
the activity was frowned upon, to say the least. If an artist was caught
pursuing his calling, he was likely to find himself at the wrong end of a hair
rope with nothing under his feet.
The
procedure was simple enough. One took a cinch ring from his own saddle gear
and, holding it between a couple of sticks, used it when red-hot like any other
branding iron. A good hand with a cinch ring could easily duplicate any known
brand, depending only upon his degree of skill.
Ross
rolled and lighted a smoke. If he were found on the spot, it would require
explaining, and at the moment he had no intention of explaining anything. He
swung his leg over the saddle and turned the gelding down trail once more.
Not
three miles away lay the cow town known as Soledad. To his right, and about six
miles away, was an imposing cluster of buildings shaded beneath a splendid
grove of old cottonwoods. Somewhat nearer, and also well-shaded, was a smaller
ranch.
Beyond
the rocky ridge that stretched an anxious finger into the lush valley was Walt
Pogue’s Box N spread. The farther ranch belonged to Chalk Reynolds, his RR
outfit being easily the biggest in the Ruby Hills country. The nearer ranch
belonged to Bob and Sherry Vernon.
“When
thieves fall out,” Ross muttered aloud, “honest men get their dues. Or that’s
what they say. Now I’m not laying any claim to being so completely honest, but
there’s trouble brewing in this valley. When the battle smoke blows away, Ross
Haney is going to be top dog on one of those ranches. They’ve got it all down
there. They have range, money, power. They have gun hands riding for them, but
you and me, Rio, we’ve only got each other.”
He
was a lone wolf on the prowl. Down there they ran in packs, and he would circle
the packs, alone. When the moment came, he would close in.
“There’s
an old law, Rio, that only the strong survive,” he said. “Those ranches belong
to men who were strong, and some of them still are. They were strong enough to
take them from other men, from smaller men, weaker men. That’s the story of
Reynolds and Pogue. They rustled cows until they grew big and now they sit on
the housetops and crow. Or they did until they began fightin’ one another.”
“Your
reasoning” – the cool, quiet voice was feminine – “is logical, but dangerous. I
might suggest that, when you talk to your horse, you should be sure his are the
only ears!”
She
sat well in the saddle, poised and alert. There was a quirk of humor at the
corners of her mouth, and nothing of coyness or fear in her manner. Every inch
of her showed beauty, care, and consideration of appearances that were new to
him, but beneath them there were both fire and steel – and quality.
“That’s
good advice,” he agreed, measuring her with his eyes. “Very good advice.”
“Now
that you’ve looked me over,” she suggested coolly, “would you like to examine
my teeth for age?”
He
grinned, unabashed. “No, but now that I’ve looked you over, I’d say you are
pretty much of a woman. The kind that’s made for a man!”
She
returned his glance, then smiled as if the remark had pleased her. So she
changed the subject. “Just which ranch do you plan to be top dog on when the
fighting is over?”
“I
haven’t decided,” he said frankly. “I’m a right choosy sort of man when it
comes to horses, ranches, and women!”
“Yes?”
She glanced at the gelding. “I’d say your judgment of horses isn’t obvious by
that one. Not that he isn’t well-shaped, and I imagine he could run, but you
could do better.”
“I
doubt it.” He glanced at her fine, clean-limbed thoroughbred. “I’d bet a little
money he can outrun that beauty of yours, here to Soledad.”
Her
eyes flashed. “Why, you idiot! Flame is the fastest horse in this country. He
comes of racing stock!”
“I
don’t doubt it,” Haney agreed. “He’s a fine horse. But I’ll bet my saddle
against a hundred dollars that this Appaloosa will kick dust in his face before
we get to Soledad!”
She
laughed scornfully, and her head came up. “You’re on!” she cried, and her red
horse gave a great bound and hit the trail running. That jump gave the bay the
start, but Ross knew his gelding.
Leaning
over, he yelled into the horse’s ear as they charged after the bay: “Come on,
boy! We’ve got to beat that bay! We need the money!” And Rio, seeming to
understand, stretched his legs and ran like a scared rabbit.
As
they swept into the main road and in full sight of Soledad, the bay was leading
by three lengths, but despite the miles behind it, the Appaloosa loved to run,
and he was running now.
The
gelding had blood of Arabians in his veins, and he was used to off-hand, cow
camp style racing. The road took a small jog, but Ross did not swing the
gelding around it, but took the desert and mountain-bred horse across the
stones and through the mesquite, hitting the road scarcely a length behind the
big red horse.
Men
were gathering in the street and on the edge of town now and shouting about the
racing horses. With a half mile to go the big red horse was slowing. He was a
sprinter, but he had been living too well with too little running. The gelding
was just beginning to run. Neck stretched, Ross leaning far forward to cut the
wind resistance and lend impetus with his weight, the mustang thundered
alongside the bay horse, and neck and neck they raced up to the town. Then,
with the nearest building only a short jump ahead, Ross Haney spoke to the
Appaloosa: “Now, Rio! Now!”
With
a lunge, the spotted horse was past and went racing into the street leading by
a length.
Ross
eased back on the reins and let the horse run on down the street abreast of the
big red horse. They slowed to a canter, then a walk. The girl’s eyes were wide
and angry.
“You
cheated! You cut across that bend!”
Ross
chuckled. “You could have, miss! And you got off to a running start. Left me
standing still!”
“I
thought you wanted a race!” she protested scornfully. “You cheated me!”
Ross
Haney drew up sharply, and his eyes went hard. “I reckon, ma’am,” he said, “you
come from a long line of sportsmen! You can forget the bet!”
The
sarcasm in his voice cut like a whip. She opened her mouth to speak, but he had
turned the Appaloosa away and was walking it back toward the center of town.
For
an instant, she started to follow, and then with a toss of her head, she let
him go.
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