The Hills of Homicide (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Read online

  The Hills of Homicide is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1983 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust

  Postscript by Beau L’Amour © 2019 by Beau L’Amour

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BANTAM and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Originally published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, in 1983.

  ISBN 9781984817891

  Ebook ISBN 9780593156360

  Ebook 9780593156360

  Cover art: Gregory Manchess

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  The Hills of Homicide

  Author’s Note

  Unguarded Moment

  Author’s Note

  Dead Man’s Trail

  Author’s Note

  With Death in His Corner

  Author’s Note

  The Street of Lost Corpses

  Author’s Note

  Stay Out of My Nightmare

  Author’s Note

  Collect from a Corpse

  Author’s Note

  I Hate to Tell His Widow

  What Is Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures?

  Postscript

  Dedication

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  About Louis L’Amour

  FOREWORD

  One evening in the Brown Derby on Vine Street in Hollywood I was introduced to a former convict who had written a book. Several of us were talking but I believe it was that gentleman who told the story of a man who had been arrested a number of times for petty crimes. For each he served but a few weeks or months in jail.

  Someone got the idea that if this man were taught to read and write he would then get a job and live a decent life.

  He was taught to read and write, became an excellent penman and within months was back in jail, for forgery!

  Only that time he got three years.

  * * *

  —

  THE HILLS OF HOMICIDE is a special collection that I have put together of my detective and crime stories. They were written in the so-called “hard-boiled” style for magazines that also featured the work of writers like Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Cornell Woolrich. Although I am best known for my fiction about the American frontier, there’s no reason why a person who is known for stories about one area cannot write successful stories in another. Good storytelling can be applied to any area at any time.

  The detective genre fascinated me right from the beginning of my professional writing career. I had travelled around cities a good deal all over the world and of course one of the major differences between the detective story and the frontier story is that the former generally takes place around a city. I’ve also known many police officers through the years from whom I learned a great deal, I met a lot of characters through my professional prizefighting days, and of course, during recent years, I suppose everybody has become increasingly familiar with crime since it’s happening everywhere. In beginning to do detective stories, I just applied the situations that I knew and with which I had made myself familiar through experience or research.

  One of the questions most often asked of an author is: Where do you get your ideas?

  The obvious reply is that one must have ideas if one is to become a writer, but that would be only half the truth.

  Story ideas can come from anywhere and everywhere, but one must be quick to perceive them. They can be derived from a chance remark, a happening, a word, a place, or a person. To become successful as a writer one must become story-minded, that is, he must become able to perceive the story value of what he sees, hears, or learns. An idea that offers riches to one might be useless to another. Hence the idea is less than what the writer brings to the idea.

  Each writer brings to his profession his personal viewpoint and experience. Ten persons given the same idea would come up with ten entirely different stories. Hence it is what one does with the idea that matters.

  When I wrote the original magazine versions of the stories in this volume there were times when I might be working on a detective story in the morning and a western story in the afternoon or vice versa. As I mentioned above, there are differences in the approach to the two kinds of writing. The detective protagonist does not usually come to fear the land as much as the characters in a frontier story. A man travelling in the West finds himself off the beaten track many times and away from any help or any aid that he couldn’t devise for himself. When he was lucky, he could find a few other people like himself.

  In detective stories, the characters come to fear the people they have to associate with in the city. Of course, the character strengths that the men and women in these detective stories draw upon to resolve their conflicts would stand them in good stead in the struggles of survival that I write about in my frontier stories in previous collections like BOWDRIE, BUCKSKIN RUN, and THE STRONG SHALL LIVE. For that matter, Chick Bowdrie, the Texas Ranger featured in all of the stories in BOWDRIE would have the skills to solve many of the cases in this book with surprisingly few adjustments for the difference in period. I’ve been encouraged to put this collection together from many of the readers who responded favorably to my only previous collection of essentially non-frontier stories, YONDERING.

  I hope you enjoy THE HILLS OF HOMICIDE.

  Louis L’Amour

  Los Angeles, California

  July 1983

  THE HILLS OF HOMICIDE

  THE IMPOSSIBLE MURDER

  The station wagon jolted over a rough place in the blacktop, and I opened my eyes and sat up. Nothing had changed. When you are in the desert, you are in the desert, and it looks it. We had been driving through the same sort of country when I fell asleep, the big mesa that shouldered against the skyline ahead being the only change.

  “Ranagat’s right up ahead, about three, four miles.” Shanks, who was driving me, was a thin-faced little man who sat sideways in the seat and steered with his left hand on the wheel. “You won’t see the town until we get close.”

  “Near that mesa?”

  “Right up against it. Small town, about four hundred people when they’re all home. Being off the state highway, no tourists ever go there. Nothin’ to see, anyway.”

  “No boot hill?” Nearly all of the little mining towns in this section have a boot hill, and from the look of them, shooting up your neighbors must have been the outstanding recreation in the old days.

  “Oh, sure. Not many in this one, though. About fifteen or twenty with markers, but they buried most of them without any kind of a slab. This boot hill couldn’t hold a candle to Pioche. Over there they buried seventy-five before the first one died of natural causes.”

  “Rough place.”

  “You said it. Speakin’ of guys gettin’ killed, they had a murder in Ranagat the other nigh t. Old fellow, got more money than you could shake a stick at.”

  “Murder, you say?”

  “Uh-huh. They don’t know who done it, yet, but you needn’t worry. Old Jerry will catch him. That’s Jerry Loftus, the sheriff. He’s a smart old coot, rustled a few cows himself in the old days. He can sling a gun, too. Don’t think he can’t. Not that he looks like much, but he could fool you.”

  Shanks put a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a match cupped in his right hand. “Bitner, his name was. That’s the dead man, I mean.” He jerked his cigarette toward the mesa. “Lived up there.”

  “On top?” From where I sat, the wall of sheer, burnt-red sandstone looked impossible to climb. “How’d he get up there?”

  “From Ranagat. That’s the joker in this case, mister. Only one way up there, an’ that way is in plain sight of most of Ranagat, an’ goes right by old Johnny Holben’s door. Nobody could ever get up that trail without being seen by Johnny.

  “The trail goes up through a cut in the rock, and believe me, it’s the only way to get on top. At a wide place in the cut, Johnny Holben has a cabin, an’ he’s a suspicious old coot. He built there to annoy Bitner because they had it in for each other. Used to be partners, one time. Prospected all this country together an’ then set up a company to work their mines. ‘Bitner and Holben,’ they called it. Things went fine for a while, and they made a mint of money. Then they had trouble an’ split up.”

  “Holben kill him?”

  “Some folks think so, but others say no. Bitner’s got him a niece, a right pretty girl named Karen. She came up here to see him, and two days after she gets here he gets murdered. A lot of folks figure that was a mighty funny thing, her being heiress to all that money, an’ everything.”

  So there were two other suspects, anyway. That made three. Johnny Holben, Karen Bitner, and my client. “Know a guy named Caronna?”

  “Blacky Caronna? Sure.” Shanks slanted a look at me out of those watchful, curious eyes. I knew he was trying to place me, but so far hadn’t an inkling. “You know him?”

  “Heard of him.” It was no use telling Shanks what I had come for. I was here to get information, not give it.

  “He’s a suspect, too. An’ in case you don’t know, mister, he’s not a nice playmate. I mean, you don’t get rough with him. Nobody out here knows much about him, an’ he’s lived in Ranagat for more than ten years, but he’s a bad man to fool with. If your business is with him, you better forget it unless it’s peaceful.”

  “He’s a suspect, you say?”

  “Sure. Him an’ old Bitner had a fight. An argument, that is. Bitner sure told him off, but nobody knows what it was about but Caronna; an’ Blacky just ain’t talkin’.

  “Caronna is sort of a gambler. Seems to have plenty of money, an’ this place he built up here is the finest in town. Rarely has any visitors, an’ spends most of his time up there alone except when he’s playin’ poker.

  “The boys found out what he was like when he first came out here. In these Western towns they don’t take a man on face value, not even when he’s got a face like Blacky Caronna’s. Big Sam, a big miner, tangled with him. Sam would weigh about two-fifty, I guess, and all man. That’s only a shade more than Caronna.

  “They went out behind The Sump, that’s a pool hall an’ saloon, an’ they had it out. Boy, was that a scrap! Prettiest I ever seen. They fought tooth an’ toenail for near thirty minutes, but that Caronna is the roughest, dirtiest fighter ever come down the pike. Sam was damn near killed.”

  “Big guy, you say?”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe an inch shorter than you, but wide as a barn door. And I mean a big barn! He’s a lot heavier than you, an’ never seems to get fat.” Shanks glanced at me. “What do you weigh? About one-eighty?”

  “Two hundred even.”

  “You don’t say? You must have it packed pretty solid. But don’t you have trouble with Caronna. You ain’t man enough for it.”

  That made me remember what the boss said before I left. “His money is as good as anybody’s money, but don’t you get us into trouble. This Caronna is a tough customer, and plenty smart. He’s got a record as long as your arm, but he got out of the rackets with plenty of moola, and that took brains. You go over there and investigate that murder and clear him if you can. But watch him all the time. He’s just about as trustworthy as a hungry tiger.”

  The station wagon rolled down the last incline into the street and rolled to a halt in front of a gray stone building with a weather-beaten sign across the front that said Hotel on one end and Restaurant on the other.

  The one street of the town laid everything out before you for one glance. Two saloons, a garage, a blacksmith shop, three stores, and a café. There were two empty buildings, boarded up now, and beyond them another stone building that was a sheriff’s office and jail in one piece.

  Shanks dropped my bag into the street and reached out a hand. “That will be three bucks,” he said. He was displeased with me. All the way over I had listened, but he had no more idea who I was than the man in the moon.

  Two thistle-chinned prospectors who looked as if they had trailed a burro all over the hills were sitting on the porch, chewing. Both of them glanced up and stared at me with idle curiosity.

  The lobby was a long, dank room with a soot-blackened fireplace and four or five enormous black leather chairs and a settee, all looking as if they had come across the plains fifty or sixty years ago. On the wall was a mountain lion’s head that had been attacked by moths.

  A clerk, who was probably no youngster when they opened the hotel in ’67, got up from a squeaky chair and shoved the register at me. I signed my name and, taking the key, went up the stairs. Inside the room I waited just long enough to take my .45 Colt out of the bag and shove it behind my belt under my shirt. Then I started for the sheriff’s office. By the time I had gone the two blocks that comprised the full length of the street, everyone in town knew me by sight.

  * * *

  —

  Jerry Loftus was seated behind a rolltop desk with both feet on the desk and his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest. His white, flat-crowned hat was shoved back on his head, and his hair and mustache were as white as the hat. He wore cowboy boots with spurs, and a six-shooter in an open-top holster.

  Flipping open my wallet, I laid it in front of him with my badge and credentials showing. He glanced down at them without moving a hand, then looked up at me.

  “Private detective? Who sent for you?”

  “Caronna.”

  “He’s worried, then. What do you aim to do, son?”

  “Look around. My orders are to investigate the crime, find evidence to clear him, and so get you off his back. From the sound of it”—I was fishing for information—“he didn’t seem to believe anybody around here would mind if he was sentenced or not. Guilty or not.”

  “He’s right. Nothing against him myself. Plays a good hand of poker, pays when he loses, collects when he wins. Maybe he buys a little highgrade once in a while, but while the mine owners wish we would put a stop to it, we don’t figure that what gold ore a man can smuggle out of a mine is enough to worry about.

  “All these holes around here strike pockets of rich ore from time to time. Most of the mines pay off pretty well, anyway, but when they strike that wire gold, the boys naturally get away with what they can.

  “The mines all have a change room where the miners take off their diggin’ clothes, walk naked for their shower, then out on the other side for their street clothes, but men bein’ what they are, they find ways to get out with some gold.

  “Naturally, that means they have to have a buyer. Caronna seems to be the man. I don’t know that, but I never asked no questions, either.”

  “Would you mind giving me the lowdown on this killing?”