Stagecoach – Five Stories by Ernest Haycox

Book Details

Five Western stories by Ernest Haycox including Stage to Lordsburg, made into the classic Western film Stagecoach directed by John Ford. This film starred Clare Trevor and introduced John Wayne in his first leading role.

When You Carry the Star (1931) – A friend is a precious thing, and it’s bitter to let him down, but what could the sheriff do?

Hang Up My Gun (1931) – Out of the badlands came the smiling man, on a trail of stern six-gun justice.

Scout Detail (1938) – Lieutenant Wells’ first tour of duty, which taught him many things— chief among them a respect for the Apache as a foe who just didn’t scare easily

Stage to Lordsburg (1937) – Where life ended for some and began for others. The cleaning of the slate by the man known as Malpais Bill, and some new and more enduring writing upon it by the same gentleman

Old Glory (1939) – The old glory of a forgotten man

Ernest Haycox (1899-1950) was born in Portland, Oregon. He enlisted in the United States Army in 1915 and was stationed along the Mexican border in 1916 where he witnessed some of the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). During World War I he was sent to Europe, and after the war he spent a year at Reed College in Portland. In 1923, Haycox graduated from the University of Oregon with a Bachelor of Arts degree in journalism.

Haycox died after unsuccessful cancer surgery in 1950, at the age of 51.

Stagecoach – Five Stories contains 10 illustrations.

Files:

1. Stagecoach.epub

Excerpt: When You Carry the Star

A friend is a precious thing, and it’s bitter to let him down, but what could the sheriff do?

SHERIFF HENRY LINZA was taking the evening’s ease on the porch of his ranch house, ten miles out of Bonita, when he saw the rider come beating across the prairie; and even at that distance he knew. His face settled a little and he tapped the bowl of his pipe against an arm of his chair as if to signal the end of twilight’s long peace. “It’s Bob Boatwright,” said he to his wife. “Funny how he likes to lug bad news to me.”

“How can you tell?” asked Miz Linza.

“He’s sittin’ all over the saddle,” chuckled Linza. “Kind of a St. Vitus’ dance catches him when he gets excited.” But when Boatwright, marshal of Bonita, came abreast the porch, Linza was quite grave. Indian summer’s cloudy beauty lay over the land and it was hard to think of the crimes of men.

“This is bad, Sheriff,” said Boatwright. “Will Denton—he’s turned wild.”

“Will Denton!” exclaimed Miz Linza. “Why, I don’t believe it!”

But Henry Linza shook his head slowly and, leaning forward, prompted Boatwright. “As how, Bob?”

“He walked into Neal Sampson’s store an hour ago, pulled the gun and asked for the extra money Neal keeps to accommodate ranch hands after the bank closes. Wouldn’t been nothin’ but ord’nary robbery but Neal is rattled, makes a move toward the counter and gets a bullet in the heart.”

“What then?” grunted Linza.

“It was all over in three minutes,” said Boatwright. “Last we saw of Denton he was goin’ due west into the heat haze. I couldn’t get a posse organized so I come here. The boys are shy of Denton’s educated rifle, Sheriff.”

“I don’t believe it,” repeated Miz Linza. “Why, he ate supper with us two weeks ago.”

“I hated to come here,” said Boatwright, “knowin’ he was a friend of yours.” And after a lengthening silence he spoke again. “What’ll you do, Sheriff?”

Lanza’s head fell thoughtfully forward. Lines curved down from his lip corners into a squarely definite chin, thus creating an aspect of doggedness, of biting into difficulties and hanging on. Without alleviating humor, that cast of jaw and mouth would have seemed unforgiving and almost brutal; but it was Linza’s eyes that gave him away. Candidly blue, they mirrored the shrewdness of a full life and the inevitable compassion arising therefrom.

AS AN observer and dealer in the misdemeanors of men he had grown great without becoming hard; of that splendid line of southwestern peace officers which had left its impress on an unruly land, there was in him always a puzzlement that certain things had to be.

“Go after him,” said he, following a long spell of silence.

“Now?” pressed the marshal.

“Mornin’s soon enough,” replied Henry Linza. “He’s got twelve hundred square miles to roam in and one day makes no difference. Light and rest, Bob.”

“Thanks, no, I’ve got to get back,” said Boatwright and cantered away into the deepening dusk.

“He sat here on this porch two weeks ago,” murmured Miz Linza. “It don’t seem possible.”

“He was on the border line then,” reflected Linza. “I saw it in him. He wasn’t the same. He held a little off from me. He was debatin’ the jump whilst he ate my beef.”

“But what could make him?” pressed Miz Linza.

Linza shook his head. “If anybody knew the answer to that they’d have the answer to all things. Wild blood, a dark thought, a bad day, a tippin’ of the balance in a man’s mind, a sudden move—and then it’s done and never can be undone. One more rider in the wild bunch.”

“Your own friend,” said Miz Linza.

“Was,” agreed Linza, rising. “But it’s himself that took the step across the line, and he’d be the first to realize I’ve got to go after him. Such,” and a deepening regret came to his voice, “is the constituted order of things in a mighty queer world. We better turn in, Henrietta. I’ll ride early.”

It was, in fact, still short of daylight when Henry Linza pulled out from the ranch, riding one horse and leading another. There was a single gun at his hip, a rifle in its boot, a few necessities within the saddlebags, and some quick grub inside the blanket roll tied to the cantle strings. In addition he carried a pair of binoculars. “Can’t say when I’ll return,” he told his wife. “My intention is to take Will peaceably. Knowin’ his disposition I dunno if he’ll agree. But don’t worry.”

She had been a peace officer’s wife too long to show her concern outwardly. All she did was to touch him gently and return to the porch. A hundred yards off he swung in his saddle and raised his hand as a farewell; it was a comfort to know she’d be there waiting for him to come back.”

Excerpt From: Ernest Haycox. “Stagecoach – Five Stories.”