Reilly's Luck

by Louis L'Amour

  More stars came out, and they seemed like distant campfires on the field of the night sky, as though a vast army camped out there, far away.

  Will Reilly sat up, wrapping his arms about his knees. “Don’t worry, Val,” he said easily. “I have been in worse spots. Although not many,” he added, more grimly. “At least, they won’t attack us in the night.”

  He added, “When this is over I think it will be time to go east again.”

  Val said suddenly, “I might he able to crawl to the water.”

  Will looked at him. “You’d try it, too, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t. That would be dangerous, even for an Indian.”

  “I’m small, sir. I take up less room than you, sir, or any of the others. When I lived with the Schmitts, we used to play Indian all the time. I could crawl and hide better than anybody.”

  “You just wait.”

  “We need water, sir. I know there’d be Indians there, but they wouldn’t be looking for a boy.”

  “No,” Will Reilly said firmly.

  Then Val slept, and when he awoke it was very cold. He dug himself deeper into the sand and tried to turn his jacket collar higher. For a long time he lay awake, thinking about the rocks where Egan Gates had said the water was. They formed a steep wall, but they were very broken, with cracks and chimneys everywhere; there were fallen rocks all down the mountainside. A boy could hide where a man would have no chance.

  Val would never forget that night. The stars seemed brighter and closer than they ever had, or ever would again. Presently he heard a vague stirring, and then what sounded like a scuffle.

  After that there was somebody panting nearby, and he heard Bridger Downs’s voice. “In the side … I don’t think it’s bad. He had the same idea I had.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I killed him. Oh, he was tough and slippery. He got the knife into me slick as a whistle, but I grabbed his wrist and held on while I clobbered him with my fist. Then I got hold of his throat, dug my fingers in, and smashed his head against the rocks.”

  “How are the horses?”

  “They seemed all right, but they’ll be needin’ water.”

  Finally Val slept again, and was awakened by the slam of a gunshot, and he saw Will holding one of the new rifles. The drummer was loading another. “I thought our little demonstration of shooting might scare them off,” he said.

  Will lit the stub of his cigar with his left hand. “Apaches don’t scare worth a damn,” he said. And he added, “Although they take notions.”

  “Notions?”

  “Watch for their chief. If you kill their chief they’ll back off until they’ve chosen another. They might leave altogether.”

  There was no attack, and no Apaches were seen. Val grew restless. He thought the Indians were probably gone. His mouth was parched and his skin was hot, but he did not complain. Nobody else was complaining, and he was determined not to be the first.

  They waited, sleeping by turns. It was midafternoon before Will Reilly suddenly reached over and shook Downs awake. “They’re coming.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. They’ve been filtering down from the rocks, working closer and closer. I think they’re going to try a rush.”

  Egan Gates pulled himself up, his face white and strained. The miner had lost blood, and the lack of water was not helping him.

  Will turned to Val. “You and Dobie load. Make every move count now. I believe they’re planning to do us in.”

  When they came it was from scarcely thirty yards off. They seemed to spring directly out of the rocks. They fired a volley and charged.

  All the guns were loaded, and the Apaches were met by a crashing volley, the men firing as fast as they could work the levers on their rifles. Val knew the attack would have to be beaten back or they would not survive, and he emptied his rifle as swiftly as possible.

  Three Apaches made the circle of rocks. A barrel-chested one vaulted the rocks from behind and rushed at Will’s back, a knife in his hand.

  Val, unable to think what to do, threw his rifle at the Indian’s legs, and the man stumbled and went to his knees. Both boys leaped on him, Dobie striking hard with a rock.

  The Apache threw them off and lunged to his feet. They grabbed his legs and he swung down with a knife at Val’s back. Will, hearing the scuffle behind him, wheeled and fired his Winchester at point-blank range.

  The heavy slug caught the Apache squarely in the chest and he fell back. Will fired again, then turned and clubbed his rifle at one who was fighting desperately with the wounded Gates, who had only one useful hand. The butt caught the Apache behind the neck and he went down, his skull crushed right at the top of the spine.

  The two Apaches were tossed over the rocks. The remaining one of the three was backed against the rocks with Bridger Downs’s .44 jammed into his belly.

  “Hold him, Bridger,” Reilly said. “We mustn’t let him go to warn the others. Our boys haven’t had time to get around to the other end of the pass. If he gets away and tells the others about all the rifles and ammunition we’ve got, they’ll know it’s a trap.”

  The drummer was quick. “We’d better send up the signal for the attack. As for him”—he gestured toward the Indian and drew his knife—“we’d better let him abscond right here.”

  The Apache lunged suddenly, springing to the top of the rocks, then leaping over. Reilly fired a shot in the air, and let him go.

  “Let’s hope it works,” the drummer said. He glanced at Bridger. “I had to trust you knew what abscond meant, and I was sure the Indian would not.”

  Bridger Downs spat, and gave the drummer a hard look. “I know what abscond means, my friend, and if I was you I’d forget what it means.”

  The drummer smiled. “Of course. This is all among friends, isn’t it?”

  There was a sudden rattle of horses’ hoofs, and they saw the dust of the fleeing Apaches. The trick had worked.

  “Come on.” Will Reilly got to his feet. “We’d better go while the going is good.”

  “Just for luck,” Gates suggested, “throw a fire together. The signal smoke will sort of help them along.”

  Sponseller came down from the rocks. He had a bullet burn along his ribs, but was otherwise unhurt. He helped get the horses ready, and when they were all mounted up they moved out, three of the horses carrying double.

  It was a good fifty miles to Ralston’s, and Val never forgot that ride, nor the walking he did on the way.

  After that it was Silver City, where Val went riding with Billy, the son of the woman who kept the boarding house. Dobie was with them, too. They raced their horses through the streets and out into the hills beyond the town.

  “You people stayin’ around?” Billy asked.

  “Nope,” Dobie said. “Ma’s going over to Las Vegas. Her sister—my aunt—lives there. Ever since pa died we been traipsin’.”

  “You better hope your ma doesn’t marry again,” Billy said. “Mine did, and he’s drunk most of the time. He beats me when he can lay hold of me … which ain’t often.”

  “We’re going to El Paso,” Val said. “Maybe to New Orleans.”

  They circled around the town and came in from the other side, talking about Indians. “I never seen any real wild Injuns,” Billy said. “There was some in Kansas folks said had been wild a while back, but the ones in Colorado were mostly just hanging around.”

  After supper they stood outside the Antrim House and Ash Upson talked to the boys. “A pleasure,” he said, “a real pleasure to talk to Will Reilly. It isn’t often we find anyone with his knowledge of literature. He’s an admirer of Scott, as I am.”

  The other boys did not know who Scott was, but Val recalled Will’s mention of him. After a while Will came out. “We’re leaving tomorrow, Val.”

  Then came a week in El Paso, three days in San Antonio, and a ride on a steamboat from Indianola, Texas, to New Orle
ans. It was a fortunate time for Will Reilly. The cards ran his way, and he played them carefully, arriving in New Orleans three thousand dollars richer than when he left Tucson.

  After that there was Mobile, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia, and New York …

  And then a year in Europe. Val was growing taller and stronger, and he learned to speak French, picked up some German and Italian. As they traveled, Will Reilly gambled in every city in which they stayed. Yet sometimes weeks would pass during which he would not touch a deck of cards, nor enter a gambling hall, though even during such times he never really released himself from the hold of gambling.

  His wagers were polite ones, developed during conversations, and often evolving from some casual discussion of history or genealogies; on these, too, he was well informed. Often the fact that he was an American gave his antagonists greater confidence, as did his manner, which was almost apologetic, though insistent at such times. Somehow—and Val often wondered how it happened—it was always Will who was challenged. But Will Reilly was not a man to allow himself to grow slack in his physical condition. He boxed, he fenced, he went to shooting galleries, he rode horseback, he wrestled.

  But Will Reilly was changing. They were in Innsbruck now, and one night after midnight he returned from the gaming rooms in a black mood. He threw a handful of money on the table in their room. The gesture was one of irritation, even of disgust.

  He looked at Val. “You should be asleep. You’re too young to keep such hours.”

  “I wasn’t tired.”

  Will glanced at the book. “Faust? Where did you get hold of that?”

  “It was a lady. The one you were talking to this afternoon. Louise, I think you called her.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Yes, sir. She was asking about you. If I was your son.”

  Will Reilly was silent for a moment, then he muttered to himself, “So she didn’t believe me? But why should she? I’m a gambler.” His tone was filled with self-contempt, and Val watched him curiously. He had never seen Will like this before.

  Will gestured at the book. “Read that—and then read Byron’s Manfred. That’s the only Faust who acted as if he had any guts. The rest of them were a pack of sniveling weaklings who learned nothing that was of any help to them.”

  Val never knew why he said what he did, but he knew his friend was in trouble. “Have you learned anything of any use to you?” the boy asked.

  Will gave him a quick, hard glance. Then he chuckled. “Why, now, there’s a likely question if I’ve ever heard one. Yes, I’ve learned a lot, but there are some situations where all a man knows is of no use to him. Val, I’ve been an ungodly fool. I’ve stepped in where I had no business, and the best I can get out of it is the worst.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Play my hand out … as far as it will take me. I’ve taken chips in the game, and I’ll not back out now.”

  “And if you fail, sir?”

  Reilly gave Val one of those flashing Irish smiles that lit up his face. “Why, then, Val, I’ll need a lot of luck and a fast horse.”

  Well, Val thought, it would not be the first time they had left town in a hurry. And he wondered if Will had actually given any thought to the fast horses.

  Val was not yet ten years old, but he had been reared in a hard, dangerous school. The next morning when he saw Will mount up and ride off toward the forest alone, he went over to the stable where horses were for sale or for hire. He had talked to the hostlers before, and the owners, too. There were two gray horses that he particularly liked, and he stood looking at them now.

  “Would you sell those horses,” he asked, “if I could get my uncle to buy?”

  “The horses are for sale.” The hostler was an Italian, and friendly. “Everything is for sale if the price is right.”

  He waited until another hostler, a German, walked away and then said, “Your uncle should be careful. He is making a dangerous enemy.”

  “You are our friend?”

  The Italian shrugged. “I like him … your uncle. He is a man.”

  “Then sell me the horses and say nothing about it.”

  The hostler stared at him. “You are serious? You’re only a child.”

  “Sir, I have traveled with my uncle for a long time. I know how it is with him. He lets me do things.”

  “Yes, I have seen that.” The man rubbed his jaw. “You have the money? It is quite a lot.”

  “Yes, sir. I can get it.”

  They haggled briefly, but it was largely a matter of form. Val knew he would have to pay a little too much, but he remembered what Will Reilly often said: “The cost of something is measured by your need of it.”

  “And the horses? Where will you keep them?” the Italian asked.

  “Take them tomorrow, when nobody is watching, to the red barn. I shall want them saddled and ready.”

  That called for some more haggling but to a boy who had spent his life among men, and who had more than once watched Will make preparations for a hurried leavetaking, it offered no problems.

  The old stone barn was deserted, a place where, as Val knew, the Italian hostler often met a girl friend. Sometimes Val had walked to the barn with him and they had sat talking and looking across the valley until the girl came, at which time Val would leave them alone.

  So, sitting in the pleasant shade of the barn, or in the sunlight, if the hour was early, Val had indicated his impression that the mountains before them could not be crossed into Italy, nor into Switzerland. This the Italian was quick to deny.

  “There are smugglers who cross them all the time,” he said. “They have secret paths over the mountains. In fact,” he added, “I know some of the smugglers, and have used some of the trails.”

  Now he said after a while, “Why do you think my uncle is in danger?”

  Luigi shrugged. “It is plain to see. Your uncle is a handsome man, a strong man. The woman he is in love with, and who, I think, is in love with him, comes of a very important family in Russia, and it is said she is to marry a man here who is of a very old family. This is arranged by her cousin, Prince Pavel, and all is well. Then comes your uncle.

  “The lady is out riding. They meet, and your uncle comments on the view. The lady replies … and it had begun.

  “I was riding with her to be sure all goes well with her, and when we have passed the lady asks me about him. They meet again. By accident? I do not think so. This time they talk of mountains, of the Urals, the Rockies, and these Alps. Your uncle talks well, very well.

  “Again they meet, and again. Someone with nothing better to do speaks of it, and her cousin, Prince Pavel, is furious. It is his wish for his cousin to marry the German, who is very rich and of noble family. The lady is warned … I know it is so, although I did not see it—only their faces afterward.

  “They meet again, and then your uncle is warned.”

  Will Reilly warned? They did not know him as Val did. He was a proud, fierce man under that cool face he showed to the world.

  They warned Will Reilly, who had killed three men in gun duels, and another with a knife in a dark room where they fought to the death? Who had fought the Sioux and the Apaches?

  Suddenly Val was afraid. He was afraid for Will, and he was afraid for those others who did not know Will Reilly as well as he did.

  Chapter Five

  Val had walked out very early in the morning to see if the gray horses were in the barn, and when he returned he strolled along to the cafe where he was to meet Will.

  He loved the quaint old town which had been a trading post, which had been founded in the twelfth century, or before. He loved standing on the bank of the swift-flowing Inn River, and watching the water. He loved the mountains that loomed so close to the city, and the picturesque buildings of a bygone time. Sometimes he thought he never wanted to leave Innsbruck, but he knew the wishing was useless, for they never remained long in one place.

  In
Innsbruck Will had done no gambling. Here he thought only of Louise, and Val liked her himself. He had met Louise twice, and they had talked for a long time on both occasions. The first time was at the Munding, and she had bought him a pastry. That was when she had merely met Will Reilly when riding, and had not really known him at all. She had been very curious, but Val was used to that; women were always curious about Will Reilly.

  Val never said that Will was a gambler. He was a mining man, a story in which there was some truth, for Will did have a mining claim in Nevada, and he owned shares in several mining ventures.

  Val walked along the Maria-Theresien-Strasse to where it became the narrow Herzog-Friedrich-Strasse, and went on until he came to a little cafe where Will told him Goethe used to come to sip wine. He went inside and found a table near a window where he could watch the street.

  A man came walking briskly along the street, but when he was opposite the cafe he stopped and loitered idly.

  Val was curious. For more than five years Will Reilly had been training him always to observe anything that seemed unusual or out of place, and this man had been hurrying as if he was afraid of being late, and then had stopped and merely loafed. The hour was early, the cafe had just opened, and there was no one else about.

  Then another man strolled up the street and, without paying any attention to the one who waited outside, he entered the cafe and seated himself at a table facing that of Val, with the doorway between them.

  A couple of minutes later two men came up the street and stopped outside to talk.

  Val had eaten breakfast at that cafe for several consecutive mornings, and had never seen any of these men there before. Suddenly, he was frightened, and he remembered what Luigi, the Italian hostler, had told him.

  He started to get up, but the man facing him lifted a hand. “Stay where you are, boy. You will not be hurt.”

  “I am going because I do not wish you to be hurt,” Val said.

  The man seemed amused. “Us? Hurt?” he said, and added, “I am sorry you have to see this, boy, but your uncle must be taught a lesson, and it will do you no harm. You may learn from it.”