Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Where is Luigi?”

  “I don’t know. His bed is empty.”

  Val put his feet to the floor and dressed in silence. He might have expected this, for Will was moving true to form. Always the unexpected…always the quick start, and then travel faster than anyone could expect.

  When he was dressed he went into the kitchen. Will was making coffee. “A warm drink will do us good. Get your gear together, Val. You’ll be glad of those heavy boots before the day is over.”

  “Will we be in the snow?”

  “Not until dark, I’m thinking.”

  “What happened to Luigi?”

  “He’s around, I believe, but if he isn’t, we will move out on our own. I’m ashamed, Val. I was tired, and that and the fresh mountain air made me sleep sounder.”

  They heard someone stirring in the other room, then the door opened and the Tirolean came out, stuffing his shirt into his pants. “You make free,” he said.

  “We hoped we would not disturb you,” Will said, smiling. “After all, why should you and your family get up just because we must? And we thought an early start would be advisable.”

  The man looked sour, but whether it was the early hour or something gone awry with their plans, Val could not guess.

  He dragged their packs to the door, then went to the table. Will had made chocolate for him. There was bread, jam, and some cold meat on the table.

  “You cannot see. It is early to walk on the mountain,” the Tirolean said.

  “Oh, we’ll manage!” Will had not seated himself, Val noticed, and knowing the ways of his friend he held himself ready to move quickly. Anything unusual made Will Reilly wary, and Luigi had no reason to be gone—or none they could think of.

  Suddenly Will put down his cup. “All right, Val. Get your pack on.”

  “You leave without Luigi?” The Tirolean protested.

  Will shrugged. “He’s probably waiting for us. If not, he’ll catch up.”

  Never turning his back on the man, Will helped Val with his pack, then held the door open for him and stepped into the doorway after him.

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “You have no idea how we appreciate this.” And he drew the door to behind him.

  Will moved out at a good pace and Val was hard put to keep up. It was a cart track, then a herdsman’s track, and almost at once it began to climb steeply. Each of them had a staff, which helped.

  Below them a few lights showed in the village, and then they rounded a bend. Will slowed his pace. By now they were about half a mile from the village.

  “What happened?” Val asked.

  Will paused a moment, looking back, giving Val a chance to catch his breath without mentioning it. “Val, most people are sadly, weakly human. Don’t ever forget that. All but a few mean to be honest, but sometimes their ambition, their greed, or their need for more money will lead them into error. Probably there is a simple explanation for Luigi being gone. Probably the Tirolean was annoyed because we were up before him, in his own house, and made so free as to prepare our breakfast.

  “On the other hand, they may have had second thoughts. Prince Pavel would probably pay a good sum to know what became of me, and after all, the police will be after me. They may have persuaded themselves they should report me.”

  “I don’t think Luigi would do it.”

  “Maybe not. I don’t like to think so, either. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, and keep moving while we are doing it.”

  They walked in silence for better than a mile, and then paused for a brief rest.

  The stars were out, although far up in the sky over the mountains it was growing light. Presently they could distinguish one tree from another, and they could see where they were putting their feet. The green valley of the Otz lay far below them now, shadowed still, although they walked in sunlight. Val was a good walker, and at one time or another he had done a lot of walking. He had always loved the mountains, and much of his walking had been done at much higher elevations than this. He had gone over passes twelve or thirteen thousand feet up in Colorado; and if what he had heard was correct, few of these passes were anywhere near that.

  The men who lived in this region were all mountain men who hunted on these high slopes, and would be making better time if they tried to follow, but as Will told him, “We’ve a good start, Val, and they know I am armed. Most of them are family men who would have little sympathy with such men as Pavel Pavelovitch.”

  Will kept their pace easy, and made frequent stops. Shortly after noon they made a longer one, ate a little bread and cheese, and drank from a cold stream that ran off the mountain nearby.

  By mid-afternoon, Val was having a hard time of it. His legs were tired, and the climb had become steeper, or so it seemed to him. Once, when they had stopped, they sat watching a golden eagle swing against the vault of the sky.

  “It’s almost worth it, Val. We’d never have taken this hike otherwise.”

  “Will, I’ve been thinking. Won’t they send word over the Brenner Pass? A rider or a coach could make the trip to Merano, and officers could be waiting for us when we cross into Italy.”

  Reilly smiled. “Yes, you are right. That’s why we aren’t going into Italy. At least, we’ll see. There are two ways, and the shortest and probably the best route does take us into Italy, but for just a few miles.”

  The wind off the mountain was cold. Val plodded on, no longer thinking of anything but the moment when they would stop. Will seemed to be looking for something, and suddenly it was there…a narrow ravine that fell away steeply for about a hundred yards, and then ended in a precipice. He turned and descended the ravine.

  “Careful now, Val,” he said. “One slip, and it will be the end of you.”

  They came abruptly to another crack in the plateau that ran diagonally into the ravine they followed. Will Reilly took Val by the hand and climbed down into this smaller ravine. Under an overhang was a small stone hut.

  Lifting the latch, Will went in, and Val followed. The place was snug and tight. There was a fireplace and a stack of wood sufficient to last for days, for the hut was built against the cliff, and the overhang was deep enough for a storage place for fuel.

  “How did you know about this place?” Val asked.

  For a moment that Irish smile came over Will Reilly’s face. “I listen, Val, as I have taught you to do, and sometimes I cultivate strange company. You might wonder why, but I’ve learned always to keep one hand on the door latch, mentally, at least.

  “There are smugglers’ caves and hideouts all over the mountains. You see, we’re near the meeting place of three borders here, Austria, Italy, and Switzerland, and smuggling can be profitable.”

  He built a fire. He was quick and sure, as always, and his fire flared up with the first match.

  “I’ve brought some tea. We’ll have tea and then we’ll bathe our feet and wash out our socks. That’s the first thing on a long walk, boy. Keep your feet happy, and a change of socks will help.”

  They started off again before daybreak, and it was piercing cold. They struggled against the wind, but after a while it began to let up and snow began to fall. After an hour of that they could scarcely see. In any event, their tracks were covered. During lulls in the storm they could catch glimpses of a vast sweep of peaks, some looming amazingly near, some far off.

  * * *

  —

  MANY TIMES IN the years that followed Val tried to reconstruct that escape from Austria. They branched off at the head of the Venter and went west of the mountain, into Italy. They went through small villages—villages they did not know the names of—and passed a fourteenth-century castle; then over a steep pass, and they were in Switzerland. It was footpaths and dim trails most of the way.

  After that there was Zurich…Paris…London—and New York….

/>   Will Reilly was never quite the same again, and he had never quite forgotten Louise.

  He was colder, harder, and he laughed less often. He kept Val with him, and they were just as close; they talked of books, they went riding and shooting together. Will Reilly gambled, and he led a gambler’s life, and over the next few years he paid attention to a dozen women with the casual ease that was typical of him, but he was serious about none of them.

  When Val was fourteen they parted for the first time, when Val hired on at a cattle ranch in Texas. It was hard, grueling work, but he loved it, working from sunup to sundown, with only occasional rides into town. Will was operating a gambling house in New Orleans, but after six months he sold out and rode west to Texas.

  Val was now a tall boy, broad in the shoulders and strong in the hands. Fantastically quick with a gun, he had never drawn one in a gun battle; expert with cards, he cared nothing for gambling.

  “It’s good to see you, Val,” Will said when he saw him. He looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re growing up, boy.”

  With Will there, it took little urging for Val to quit his job, and with a pack horse they started riding west to San Antonio. As they rode, Will kept watching their back trail. He was silent for a long time, but after a while he said, “They’re hunting me, Val.”

  “Who is?”

  “That’s the hell of it. I don’t know.”

  That night in the Variety, Will told him more. “Somebody took a shot at me in New Orleans. They missed. Two days later they tried it again, and they missed again….I didn’t.”

  “You got him?”

  “I killed a man I had never seen before, and you know that I never forget a face. I would swear I never ran across him anywhere, let alone gambled with him.”

  “Mistaken identity.”

  “No…it was me he wanted. He lived long enough to say that they hadn’t told him I could shoot.”

  “They?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “So it’s over?”

  “No. Two weeks later they tried again, while I was in a card game. They burned me that time, and they got away.”

  “They?”

  “There were two of them.” Will Reilly rubbed a hand over his face. “So I quit. I sold out and drifted west. How can a man gamble when somebody he doesn’t know is shooting at him? If you have an enemy you know it, and you know him; and if it is a matter of shooting, you shoot. This is different. Anyone who walks in the door may be the one, and they can’t all miss.”

  Val had never seen Will Reilly worried before, but to sit in a gambling game knowing that any one of the players, or any bystander, may be there to kill you…well, how do you concentrate on your cards?

  From San Antonio they drifted to the German settlements around Fredericksburg. They camped three nights on the Pedernales to see if there was any pursuit. When none appeared, they rode to Fort Griffin. There, in a poker game, Will Reilly won sixty dollars, and Val won twenty at handwrestling. Although still only a boy, he had an unusually powerful grip, and had the arms, shoulders, and chest of a grown man.

  They rode the grub line west, and then they hired two wagons and four skinners and went up the Canadian to hunt buffalo. As both of them were dead shots, they did well. They followed the buffalo with a few other hunters, banding together for protection against the Indians. A tall young man named Garrett was one of them, and he was a good shot with a rifle.

  Val, who had a natural aptitude for weapons, and who had done a lot of shooting, killed nine buffalo at his first stand, eleven at his second. When the herd became nervous he stopped shooting for a few minutes to let them get over their uneasiness.

  He had made his stand near a buffalo wallow where the buffalo were scattered over the grassy plain below. He waited, enjoying the warm sun after the cool of the night, and watching the huge, shaggy beasts grazing.

  Will Reilly was half a mile away at the other corner of a triangle of which the apex was their wagons. Suddenly a rider appeared, a tall man with long flowing hair to his shoulders, riding a magnificent black horse.

  “How are you, boy?” He glanced over the terrain. “You have a nice stand here. Why aren’t you shooting?”

  “I’m letting them get settled down. They were in half a mind to stampede.”

  The man studied him thoughtfully. “Nice rifle you have there. May I see it?”

  “No, sir. I never let anybody look at my guns.”

  The man smiled. “Are you Will Reilly’s boy? I heard he was out here.”

  Val got to his feet slowly, and the tall man noted how the boy wore his gun, and the stance he took.

  “Will Reilly might be around. Who should I say is looking for him?”

  “You tell him Bill Hickok wants to talk to him.”

  Val studied the man. Hickok was a friend of Will’s, he knew. In fact, Will had loaned him a horse one time when he had been badly in need of one.

  “Mr. Hickok,” Val said, “Will said you were a good friend of his, so I take that as truth, but if you’ve become one of those hunting him, you’d better know you’ll have two of us to face.”

  Hickok looked at Val for a moment, then he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I came to warn him. Will Reilly was a friend to me when a friend was needed, and I hoped to return the favor. There are three men over on the Arkansas, and they are hunting him.”

  “We’ll ride over and talk to Will,” Val said.

  Will Reilly left his buffalo stand and came to meet them and he listened while Hickok told him the news. “One of them is Henry Sonnenberg,” Hickok said. “He said he’d know you when he sees you.”

  “And the others?”

  “Thurston Peck and Chip Hardesty. But don’t underrate Sonnenberg. He’s been building a reputation out in the Nevada gold camps. He killed some stranger out at Ruby Creek stage station, and another one in Pioche.”

  After a short silence Will Reilly said, “Bill, I’ve got a favor to ask. If you can, without stirring up trouble for yourself, find out who is back of this. They’re being paid, and I want to know who is doing the paying.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea. That’s what makes it so bad.”

  They rode back to camp, put coffee on the fire, and started stirring up some grub. The skinners were still out.

  After they had eaten, and Hickok and Will were lighting cigars, Wild Bill looked over the match at Will. “Do you know a man named Avery Simpson?”

  “Should I?”

  “He was in Wichita for a few days, then traveled to Hays. I understand he has ten thousand dollars to be paid to the person who kills you…no matter how.”

  Will Reilly just stared at him. Val got up to bring more fuel for the fire. When he had put the buffalo chips on the flames, he said, “Maybe we ought to look him up and ask why?”

  “Yes,” Will said. “The hell of it is knowing that anybody may try to shoot or knife or poison you, and not even knowing why.”

  “Want me to talk to him, Will?” Hickok asked.

  Reilly smiled, without humor. “I’ll admit, Bill, that this business is getting under my skin, but not that much. I can still fork my own broncs.”

  “Of course.” Hickok leaned back on his elbow. “Don’t forget Sonnenberg while you’re looking for this man Simpson. From what I hear, Sonnenberg is a sure-thing operator. If I was you I’d shoot on sight.”

  Bill Hickok stayed the night with them and rode on in the morning. That was the first time Val ever saw him. The next morning they rode out, too. Only this time they rode east, and then north.

  Val and Will rode into Hays on a frosty morning, and went to the hotel to make inquiries. Avery Simpson had checked out, leaving as a forwarding address the Peck House, in Empire, Colorado.

  “All right,” Will said quie
tly, “we’ll go to Empire and find out what Avery Simpson has to say for himself.”

  Val walked to the window. There was a terrible sense of foreboding in him. Why did Avery Simpson want to have Will Reilly killed?

  And did he want to kill Val too?

  CHAPTER 7

  THE PECKS HAD arrived in Empire with considerable means, and over the years they had enlarged their house, imported furniture from the East, and lived in a degree of comfort known to few in the mining regions. For nine or ten years they entertained travelers, known or unknown to them, until bad times came to the country and the Pecks turned to entertaining for a small charge.

  The Peck home, always the center for everything in that part of Colorado, had now become a hotel, and it was there that Will Reilly and Val arrived late one evening.

  A fire was blazing on the hearth, for the night was cool. It was a pleasant room, and after the chill of the long ride on the stage it felt comfortable.

  Val looked around the room thoughtfully. He saw a young girl, perhaps younger than himself, and there was a man, obviously an easterner, who sat in a big leather chair reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar.

  The girl was small, with large eyes, and was very pretty. Val went over to her. “Do you live here?” he asked.

  “No.” She looked at him with interest. “Do you?”

  “We travel,” Val said. “In this country—and we spent a year in Europe.”

  “I’ve never been there, but I will be going, one of these days.”

  “I’m Val Darrant,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Maude Kiskadden.” Her chin lifted proudly. “I am an actress.”

  “An actress?”

  “Yes, I am. So is my mother.”

  Will Reilly had come up to them. “How do you do?” he said, offering his hand. “I am Val’s uncle. Did you say your father’s name was Kiskadden?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew a Kiskadden up in Montana. In Virginia City.”