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

by Louis L'Amour

  He started to turn away when he heard a voice. “Val?”

  He turned. It was Bill Hickok. “This is a long way from the buffalo ranges, sir,” Val said.

  “It surely is.” Hickok came closer. “I wasn’t sure it was you, at first.” Then he added, “I heard about Will. That was too bad, Val.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Are you staying here?” Hickok gestured toward the hotel.

  “No, sir. As a matter of fact, I’m broke. I don’t have anything at all.” He told Hickok all about it: the ranch, the blow on the head, the arrival in St. Louis, the old river boat. “So I need a gun,” he added.

  “Boy, I’d like to help you. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been doing too well. I have no stomach for acting, boy. All that make-believe goes against the grain. So I am going back west to guide a couple of hunting parties.”

  He reached into his pocket. “Val, I don’t have much, but here’s a twenty-dollar gold piece, and if you’ll come upstairs with me, I’ve got a spare gun you can have.”

  They went into the hotel. The manager came forward and spoke to Val. “I don’t think you have a room here, young man. I would rather—”

  “I do have a room here,” Hickok said sharply, “and this boy is a friend of mine—a very good friend. Treat him as such,” he said, “or hold yourself accountable to me.”

  “Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir. I only thought—”

  “On the contrary, you did not think.” Hickok brushed by him.

  Upstairs he opened his valise and came up with a new Smith & Wesson Russian. “This was given to me, Val, and I think it may be the best of all the guns of the frontier, but I like the feel of the guns I’ve always carried.” He dug out a handful of cartridges. “Here, take these. You’d better get more, though, if you’re expecting trouble.”

  Hickok stood before the mirror, combing his hair, which fell to his shoulders. “It was Sonnenberg, Hardesty, and Thurston Pike who got him, wasn’t it?”

  “They ambushed him with shotguns when he was coming out of a door. He never had a chance.”

  “They never could have gotten him any other way. I knew Will Reilly, a good man with a gun. Well, they’ll get theirs. That kind always does.”

  “Chip Hardesty is dead.”

  “Hardesty? I hadn’t heard that.”

  “It was down in Texas, sir. Just west of Fort Griffin. He was a hired gunhand with a cattle outfit.”

  Hickok’s eyes met Val’s in the mirror. “And you said your ranch was down that way?”

  “I killed him, sir. He brought it to me.”

  “Good boy. Anybody who would dry-gulch Will had it coming.” He straightened his tie. “Will told me you were one of the best shots he had ever seen, and the fastest.”

  “He liked me, sir. I think he exaggerated.”

  “Not to me. Will never exaggerated on a thing like that in his life.” Hickok dipped a washcloth in cold water and held it to his eyes. “Makes them feel better,” he commented. “Too many nights sitting over a card table, I guess. I am better off when I’m on the hunt.”

  Val got up. “I’ve got to go, sir.” He paused. “Thank you very much. I’ll pay you back one of these days.”

  “And I may need it. Luck to you, boy. If you come out around Cheyenne or the Black Hills country, look me up.”

  When Val was out in the street, the weight of the gun in his waistband felt good. Along the river front it was cold and foggy. His footsteps echoed as he walked along the wharf toward the “Idle Hour.”

  Tomorrow they would be on their way, and in a few weeks, more or less, he would have money. He could go east.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE NIGHT WAS overcast, the wharf was damp, the black waters of the river glistened where the few lights reached it. There was a somber stillness over everything.

  At the last minute they had taken on another man, a broken-nosed Irishman with a glint of tough humor in his eyes, and an easy way of moving and talking. Both Val and Old Man Peterson had passed the time of day with him along the river front. He was broke, like themselves, and he was ready to take a chance, so they hired him on as a deck hand.

  Paddy Lahey had been a tracklayer, a rough carpenter, a tie-cutter, and a miner. Somewhere, back in the years before he left the old country, he had been a fair-to-middling prize fighter.

  “It’s up to you,” Val told him. “You’ll come in for a fifth of what we make. Peterson gets two-fifths because the boat belongs to him. I am getting two-fifths because of my knowing the flour could be saved, and because if there’s trouble I will take the brunt of it.”

  “You’re young for that,” Lahey commented, studying him doubtfully. “Better let me handle the trouble. I’m an old roughneck, and used to the ways of fighting and brawling.”

  “You’ll be needed, I’m thinking,” Peterson said, “but I’ve confidence in Val.”

  “Have you done any fist-fighting?” Lahey asked.

  “Not to speak of. Will Reilly taught me a little, and we boxed some.”

  “Then we’ll spar some. You’re a well-setup lad, and it could be you’ve got the makings. Will Reilly, was it? It’s a good Irish name he has.”

  They cast off their lines and eased the small steamer into the current. She would sleep six, but she was short on cargo space. If they were lucky enough to get the flour up, they would have to make more than one trip to get it all to the docks in St. Louis.

  They slid silently past the boats moored along the river, edged into the current, and headed south.

  Just around a bend of the river they saw the steamboat they hoped to salvage lying in shallow water. After hitting the snag, the pilot had made a run for the shore to try to save his boat and his cargo, and he had almost made it.

  “What we got to watch for,” Captain Peterson said, “is river rats. They try to get all they can lay hands on, and you can be sure they’ve been down there, looking around. They’re a pack of cut throats.”

  “That they are,” Paddy agreed. “You can’t trust ’em an inch.”

  They watched the shore, but they saw no one before they neared the wreck. The shores there were heavily wooded right down to the water, with cottonwood, box elder, elm, and willow.

  After they had tied up to the wreck itself, Val stripped to dive. This would be the first time he had ever swum for any reason other than for pleasure. His activities would be shielded from the shore by the bulk of their own small steamer.

  The texas, with its pilot house, was visible above the water. A quick examination of the pilot house told Val that it had been looted of everything valuable. Even the wheel had been ripped out and taken away, as well as the brass lamps and other fixtures.

  The texas, where the officers as well as the boat’s crew had their quarters, came next. This too, had been thoroughly looted.

  Peterson got out a fishing pole and after lighting his pipe, dropped his line over the side. Beside him on a hatch he had his shotgun. “Let ’em figure I’m just fishing,” he said. “It mayn’t fool ’em for long, or at all, but it might.”

  Val belted on a crudely made canvas belt with large pockets attached, into which he had placed stones to weight him down. He climbed over the side to the hurricane deck, and from there he climbed down a stanchion to the saloon deck. Here, ranged around the saloon, were the first-class cabins—staterooms that on Mississippi River boats were named for the states of the Union.

  The water was murky, but there was still light enough to see, and if there had been a search down there Val realized that it had been a hurried one. On the fourth dive he found a long wooden case in one of the cabins. It was an elegant, highly polished box. Tying it to the end of a line, Val signaled for it to be hoisted.

  Later, on deck, they examined it. On it was the name Steven Bricker, which Val had seen before.

 
“Let’s bust it open,” Lahey suggested.

  “No, let’s not. The man that owns this box is at the Southern Hotel. I saw his name on the register there when I was waiting to see the manager. He might pay us for it. Anyway, I think I know what it is.”

  It was a gun case, Val felt sure. He had seen such cases before, and they usually held guns treasured by sportsmen, weapons often inlaid with gold, and sometimes covered with ornamentation.

  The following morning he dived deep, going at once to the main deck. This was littered with boxes and crates, and on the foredeck he found some heavy lines, evidently used in mooring the boat. These could easily be sold along the river front, or used by Captain Peterson himself, and they were hoisted aloft.

  Lahey made two quick dives after that. He could not stay down as long as Val, but he went directly to the hatch on the main deck and knocked out a couple of wedges and removed a batten. By mid-morning when they stopped for coffee they had the forward hatch opened and had exposed the barrels. Peterson had steam up and had turned on the power so they could use it in hoisting the barrels.

  “There’s a cargo net down there,” Lahey said. “We’ve only got to roll the barrels into it. They weigh nothing much under water.”

  Huddled under a blanket, Val sipped coffee. He had never been in the water so much before, and had not gone so deep more than once or twice. But he was excited by the search, and there were still several cabins to be examined.

  It was hard work, but by nightfall they had fifty barrels of flour aboard their own steamer. They were covered with tarpaulins, some of which had been salvaged from the wreck. So far they had seen no sign of anybody about.

  They examined one barrel of flour, and found that the flour next to the outside of the barrel had settled into a hard crust for about three inches, while that in the center of the barrel was still as good as ever. This flour they kept for their own use.

  Reluctantly, they cast off, leaving Paddy Lahey aboard to watch their cargo. They steamed back up the river, and when they reached the water front at St. Louis Val went ashore and headed for the Southern Hotel with Steven Bricker’s gun case under his arm.

  This time there was no interference. He was given Bricker’s room number, and went up.

  The man who answered the door was short and stocky, with graying hair and beard. He had sharp blue eyes, that went from Val’s face to the case. “Well,” he said, “you’d better come in.” He added, “I never expected to see that again.”

  “I was in the hotel the other night and saw your name on the register, so when we found this…well, I imagine they are favorite weapons of yours, and that can be important to a man.”

  “They are important,” Bricker said. “They were the last gifts to me from my father. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, sir. I am merely returning your property.”

  Bricker looked at him shrewdly. “If you’ll permit me to say so, you look as if you could use the money.”

  “I could,” Val admitted frankly, “but I’ll not take money for returning your property.”

  “How did you come by it? I thought the ‘Gypsy Belle’ was a total loss.”

  Val explained. He told about how he had learned about the flour, and what they had done so far. Captain Peterson, he added, had even now gone to the insurers to make a deal for recovery of the flour.

  Bricker listened, lighting a fresh cigar. “Had you ever thought they might just take over and continue the salvage themselves, allowing you nothing?”

  “We did think of that. I hope they will be decent about it, sir.”

  Bricker got up and took his coat from the wardrobe. “Let’s just walk over and see how Captain Peterson is doing. He might be able to use some help.”

  Captain Peterson, cap in hand, was just being shown through the gate at the office of the insurers. His face was red with anger. “Boy, they’ve threatened us with arrest. They’ve said—”

  Steven Bricker stepped past him and opened the door of the inner office. “Danforth, I think we had better discuss this matter of salvage,” he said. “Come in, Darrant. You, too, Peterson.”

  “Now, see here! What’s your part in this, Bricker?”

  “These gentlemen are friends of mine, Danforth. And, I might add, they will be represented by my attorneys.”

  Danforth sat down and took up a cigar. “You can’t mean that, Bricker. I’ve known of Peterson for years. He’s nothing but a water-front bum, scavenging along the river for whatever he can pick up.”

  “And now he has picked up a beauty,” Bricker replied, “and you’re going to pay him for it. I happen to know that after the initial survey you abandoned that wreck. As it happens, if you remember, I was a passenger on the ‘Gypsy Belle.’ I had personal effects of considerable value aboard.

  “You can buy out the interests of Peterson and Darrant,” he went on, “or they will proceed to salvage it themselves. I happen to know that you have offered to settle with some of the shippers at a very modest price.”

  “That is none of your business, Bricker.”

  “I shall make it my business.” Bricker got up. “You have been notified. I shall instruct my attorneys to proceed at once.”

  When they were outside, Bricker turned to the others. “Are you gentlemen willing to fight? I mean, can you fight?”

  “We can, sir,” Val answered.

  “Then you get back down to that steamboat and tie up to her. Unless I’m wrong, they will make an effort to drive you off. I will get help to you as soon as possible. When my men come, they will be carrying a blue flag.”

  Val Darrant had grown up in a hard school, in which one often moved fast, or not at all. There was no time for contemplation, and he knew it. Peterson would arrive at the right decision but he would take too long, and Lahey was content to abide by whatever they decided.

  “Captain,” Val said, “you and Paddy unload the cargo. I’m going to take a boat and go back to the wreck.”

  He wasted no time. There was a skiff on the “Idle Hour” which he quickly launched, and then without delay he shoved off. He had a small packet of food, a keg of water, and the Smith & Wesson pistol. There was a good current in the river, and he was a strong hand with the oars.

  He had not gone many miles when suddenly he heard the chug-chug of a steam engine and the thrash of paddles. Glancing back, he saw a small steamer, not much larger than the “Idle Hour,” steaming toward him. At once he was sure this was a boat sent by Danforth to take possession of the wreck.

  For a moment he was swept by dismay, but almost immediately he had an idea. Taking up a line from the bow of the boat, he fashioned a hasty slip knot. He had learned roping long ago while herding cattle, and although no great shakes as a roper, he knew the roping of a bollard would not be too difficult a trick. She was a side-wheeler running at no more than half-speed, but he was going to get no more than one cast and it had to be good. Still, the bollard would be as large as a calf’s head, and certainly wouldn’t be bobbing as much.

  He coiled his line, giving himself as much slack as he could after making the other end fast, and as the steamer swept past he made his throw. It shot straight and true, and instantly he dropped into place and grabbed his oars and managed to get in a couple of good strokes to ease the jerk as the slack came to an end.

  Despite that, it gave him quite a jolt, but the line held fast and the next thing he knew he was proceeding downriver at a good clip. He sat back and relaxed. It was night, no one was on deck aft, and probably the only man awake was in the pilot house.

  They made good time, but he knew that when they rounded the bend they must slow down because of the risk of running upon the wreck. That would be his chance.

  He was waiting for the moment, and when they swept into the cove and cut the speed to slow, he waited until the steamer swung around broadside to the wreck.
Instantly he slashed the line and caught up his oars. He made two sweeping strokes before he was seen; there was a shout from the steamer’s deck, but he kept on.

  Suddenly there was another shout, this time a command to halt. He pulled hard on his right oar, easing on the left, swung out of line, continued on.

  A shot rang out and struck the water to his right, and then with one more strong pull he turned quickly, caught hold of the texas and pulled himself hand over hand around it to the sheltering side. Then he tied up his skiff and climbed aboard, taking his food and water.

  By now it was almost light. He climbed into the pilot house. There seemed to have been no one aboard since they had left. There were ladders on both sides of the pilot house to the hurricane deck, where the texas was. The hurricane deck was under water, but if necessary he could retreat to that more sheltered area.

  These were tough men, sent to do a job, and no doubt had been well chosen for it. They would shoot to frighten him, and when he did not frighten they would shoot to kill.

  Some of the hatch covers they had taken out when opening the hatch had floated against the texas and lay there among the other driftwood. They were about six feet long and three inches thick, so he carried several of them up and used them to thicken the pilot-house bulkhead, an added protection against bullets.

  Then he made coffee on the little pilot-house stove, ate a piece of cheese and some crackers and sat back to keep watch, and to wait. And he knew he had very little time to wait.

  There were at least a dozen men on that steamboat, and he could see them gathering near the rail—evidently a boat was to be lowered.

  A heavily built man came near the rail. The steamer was not more than thirty yards off, and his voice was loud and clear. “You, aboard there! We’re from the owners! We’re comin’ aboard to take possession. You can get off of your own free will, or you can be thrown off!”

  “Nothing doing!” Val shouted. “I am in possession, and I intend to stay here. I am armed, and if necessary I will shoot.”

  There was a moment of hesitation, then the big man shouted back, “All right, boy, you’re askin’ for it!”