Reilly's Luck

by Louis L'Amour

  Val took the spurs from his pocket. The Californios liked their spurs fancy, and these were an elaborate job, each with two tiny bells. He could see from the way the boy’s eyes shone that he wanted them.

  “You can see,” Val said, “these are no ordinary spurs. Fact is, they were a gift to me. From Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “You knew him?”

  “He was a friend oi my uncle’s. He warned my uncle that some men were looking for him. To shoot him,” he added.

  The boy handled the spurs. “I’d like to have them,” he said, “but I’ve only got two dollars.”

  “Well,” Val said, “if you could rustle me a meal, or some meat and bread or something, I’d sell them to you for two dollars.”

  “You just wait right here.”

  In a few minutes he was back with a paper sack and the two dollars. Val took the money and the sack. “You’d better go now,” the boy said. “Pa’s coming home and he’s dead set against tramps.”

  “All right … and thanks.”

  He started for the gate, then hesitated. “Look, if you ever get into west Texas, you hunt up the Bucklin outfit. They’re this side of the cap-rock—you ask at Fort Griffin. You tell them Val Darrant sent you.”

  He walked out of the gate, and when well down the road he sat down under a tree. There was a big hunk of meat and cheese in the sack, and several slices of homemade bread, as well as an apple. Val took his time, eating a piece of the bread, most of the meat, and the apple. Then he walked on.

  Two days later he was in St. Louis. He rode the last few miles on the seat of a wagon beside a farmer who was carrying a mixed lot of hides, vegetables, and fruit. “Work’s mighty scarce, boy,” the farmer told him, “and you will do yourself no good in St. Louis. Ever since the depression hit, there’s been three men for every job.”

  Idle men stood about the streets of the city, and Val paused on a corner, considering. He had nothing to sell. Nor was he in any position to look up any of Will Reilly’s friends, for he lacked the one thing Will had always insisted he keep. He must have a “front,” he must have the clothing, the neatly trimmed hair, the polished boots, even if he did not have a cent in his pockets.

  Standing on the corner watching the traffic, he tried to gauge his talents and abilities. He had great card skill, but he did not want to be a gambler. He had skill with guns, but he did not want to use it. He had received from Will an education in literary and historical matters. But to do anything with any of these abilities he needed money.

  All day he walked the streets, and wherever men were working he asked for a job. In every place it was the same. “We don’t have enough work to keep our own men busy.”

  When night came, he wandered back to the river front and sat down on the dock. For the first time he realized that Will Reilly, while showing him much of life, had also shielded him from much. To be with Will Reilly had given him a position, and as Will was treated with respect everywhere, Val had also received respect. Suddenly now it was gone, and he stood alone, and unknown.

  There were friends of Will’s in St. Louis. They had stayed at the Southern Hotel, and Will had been accorded the best treatment that hostelry had to offer, but he could not walk into that lobby looking as he did now. He might write to the ranch for money, but the postal service was uncertain, and it might be weeks before anybody from the ranch went into town, or to Fort Griffin.

  Before, even during periods of separation, Will had always been not too far away, and Val had always known there was somebody, somewhere, who cared. Now there was nobody.

  That night he slept on a bale of cotton under the overhang of a warehouse. He put a newspaper under his coat for protection against the cold, huddled in a ball, and shivered the whole night through. Several times he awoke, turned over, and fought to get back to sleep again. Always there were places where the cold reached him.

  At last he got up and walked down to the edge of the wharf. The river was running through the piles, sucking around them. Further up a river boat was tied, lights showing, but the lights were obscured by the falling rain.

  It was still dark; he was hungry, and his eyes heavy with weariness. After a while he walked back to his cotton bale, tucked the newspaper more firmly into place, and went back to sleep.

  He awoke in the cold gray of dawn. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low. The river rolled by, and he sat staring at it, wondering which way to turn.

  An old man, puffing on a meerschaum pipe, was plodding along the dock, carrying a lunch box. He glanced at Val over his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Mornin’, son,” he said. “You’re up mighty early.”

  Val grinned at him. Hungry, stiff, and cold, he still felt a streak of whimsy. “Mister,” he said seriously, “you have just walked into my bedroom unannounced. I did not wish to be disturbed.”

  The old man chuckled. “Well, now that you’re disturbed you might’s well come along and have some coffee.”

  Val dropped off the bale. “That’s the best invitation I’ve had for a whole day. In fact, it’s the best invitation I’ve had in several days.”

  They walked along to an old steamer that lay alongside the dock, and the old man led the way over the gangplank, and along the deck to the cabin. He unlocked the padlock and they went inside.

  “Sit down, boy. I’ll rustle around and make some coffee.” He set the lunch box on the table. “Ain’t seen you around before, have I?”

  “No, sir. I’m hunting work.”

  “What’s your line?”

  “Well, I’ve never worked much. I’ve punched cows a little, and I’ve hunted buffalo. But I’m strong—I can do anything.”

  “That’s like saying you can do nothing. Folks who do the hirin’ want carpenters and such-like. You got to have a trade, son. Ain’t there anything special you can do?”

  “Nothing that I want to do.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I can deal cards, and shoot a gun.”

  The old man eyed him over his glasses. “Hmm. You a gambler, son?”

  “No, sir. My uncle was, and he taught me. He said it was self-defense, like boxing. Only he didn’t want me to be a gambler.”

  “Smart man. What do you aim to do, son? I mean, a man ought to be going somewhere. You’re young, boy, but you’d best be thinking of where you’re going to be at my age. When I was a boy I drifted, too. Always aimed to settle down and make something of myself, but somehow that was always going to be next year—so here I am.”

  He had bacon frying, and the coffee water was boiling. “I bring my lunch, most times. I can stand my own cooking just so long, then I have to go out and buy something somebody else has fixed.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “Was … one time. Fine woman. Had a son, too.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Went west … never seen hide nor hair of him since. He was a good boy.” The old man paused. “Can’t complain. I done the same thing as a boy. Went west with a keel boat and spent my years trapping fur.”

  He glanced at Val. “You ever see the Tetons, son? Or the Big Horns? Or the Wind River Mountains? That’s country, son! That’s real country!”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  The old man put slices of the bacon on a plate, and then poured coffee. Got some bread from a bread box, “It ain’t much, son, but you fall to.”

  Val took off his coat and sat down at the table. “You don’t need a deck hand, do you? I’ll work cheap.”

  The old man chuckled, with dry humor. “Son, I’m lucky to feed myself. Ain’t had a job of towing to do in five months now, and only a little work then. There was a mite of salvage I was countin’ on, but there wasn’t much in the cargo … only flour. And water-soaked flour won’t do anybody any good.”

  Val put down his coffee cup. “Where was it sunk?”

  “Bend of the river—maybe thirty mile downstream. She hit a snag and tore the bottom out. It ain’t in deep water.
A body can land on the Texas.”

  “You want to try for it? I could help. I’m a good swimmer and diver.”

  “No use. That flour’s ruined.”

  “Not necessarily. I saw some sacks of flour out west that had been in the water, and only the flour on the outside was ruined. It soaked up water and turned hard as plaster.”

  “This flour was in barrels.”

  “All the better. You want to try for it?”

  “That water’s almighty cold this time of year.” The old man hesitated, but Val could see that he was turning it over in his mind.

  “We’d better keep it under our hats,” he said finally. “That cargo is worth something, and there’s some might want to take it from us.”

  “Do you have a gun?” Val asked.

  “An old shotgun, that’s all.”

  They talked it over, and Val went out on deck with the old man to examine the gear. It was in good shape, and the steam winch was usable. The steamer had operated on the Missouri River and on some of its branches. It had been used to push flatboats up the river and log rafts down the river, and to tow disabled steamers. It was a real workhorse of the river.

  “The water’s muddy,” the old man said. “You’ll have to locate a hatch, and if one ain’t open, you’ll have to open it.”

  “I’ll make out.”

  Val had never done anything of this sort, but he was right in saying he was a strong swimmer and a good diver, and he had read stories of salvage; and in San Francisco he had heard talk in the hotel lobbies about such things. There is no better place than a hotel lobby in a boom town for picking up information … at least, he reflected, he would be sure of some good meals.

  The old man studied him with shrewd attention. “You’re an educated boy.”

  “No, not with schooling. I never went to school. But I’ve read a lot, and I’ve discussed what I’ve read.”

  The old man shrugged. “It could be the best way maybe. You think quickly, and you seem to have a good mind. Why don’t you study law?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “Well, think of it. Even if you don’t want to practice the law you can use it in many ways. And just knowing it can be important.”

  They talked a good part of the day, returning again and again to their project. They looked over the gear once more.

  One thing disturbed Val. “We should both be armed,” he said. “There are too many drifters in town. Most of them are probably good men out of work, but there will be some bad ones among them. Such men can smell money, and if we get the flour up … How many barrels are there?”

  “On the manifest, five hundred. Some will be damaged—maybe all of them.”

  “It will take us a while, and somebody is sure to be curious, so we had better be prepared.”

  “I have no money,” the old man said. “The shotgun is all I have, and not many shells for it.”

  Val thought of something suddenly. He and Will had stayed at the Southern. Perhaps the manager there might loan him money. They had been very attentive to Will Reilly, and there was just a chance.

  He borrowed old man Peterson’s razor and shaved. He had now been shaving for two years, although even now he rarely needed to shave more than once every few days. And the old man had a black dress coat that did not fit him too badly.

  Night had come before he started up the street toward the hotel. He felt ill at ease, knowing that he did not look right; nevertheless, this was a chance he had to take.

  The Southern’s lobby was spacious, and it was busy. At the desk the clerk glanced at him, then ignored him, but Val said, “May I speak to the manager please?”

  The clerk studied him with cool eyes. “The manager? What do you want to see him about?”

  “Just tell him I am Will Reilly’s nephew.”

  There was a change in the clerk’s manner. “Oh? Just a minute.”

  He was back in a moment to show Val through a door into an inner office, where the manager sat at a roll-top desk.

  “I am Valentine Darrant, Will Reilly’s nephew.”

  “Yes, I remember you. How is Mr. Reilly?”

  “He’s dead. He was killed.”

  “Oh?” There was ever so slight a change in the manager’s manner. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I arrived in town a few days ago, and I am broke. I have a job but I need a little cash. I was wondering if you—”

  The manager got to his feet. “I am sorry, Darrant. We do not lend money. Mr. Reilly was a valued client of our hotel, but as you have said, he is no longer with us. Now, if you will excuse me—?”

  A moment later Val was standing in the street. Well, he had no right to expect a loan. It had been a foolish idea. Still, how different it had been when Uncle Will was here!

  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 y
ou 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 Thirteen

  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.