The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  “Come now, I know you have reason to be hot. But this is business. I’ll make it worth your while—”

  “Nothin’,” answered Jeems as concisely as before.

  “You can’t expect us to believe that. I followed you one night.”

  “Yo’ did?” The challenge was unmistakable.

  “I did. So you see I know something of you. Something which even the present owner does not. Say the ghost in the hall, for example.”

  There was the sound of a deeply drawn breath.

  “So you see it is to your advantage to listen to us,” continued the Boss smoothly.

  “What do you want?”

  Val knew disappointment at that question. Would Jeems surrender as easily as that?

  “Just an explanation of how you get into the house unseen.”

  “Yo’ll nevah know!” The swamper’s reply came swift and clear.

  “No? Well, I’d think twice before I held to that answer if I were you,” purred the other softly. “A word to the Ralestones about those nightly walks of yours—”

  “Won’t give yo’ what yo’ want,” replied Jeems shrewdly.

  “I see. Perhaps I have been using the wrong approach,” observed the Boss composedly. “You work for a living, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know the value of money. What is your price? Come on, we won’t haggle.”

  The Boss’ impatience colored his tone. “How much do you want for this information?”

  “Nothin’!”

  “Nothing?”

  “Ah ain’t said nothin’ an’ Ah ain’t a-goin’ to say nothin’. An’ yo’ bettah be a-gittin’ offen this heah land of mine afo’—”

  “Before what, swamper?” Red was taking a hand in the game.

  “Yo’ can’t fright’n me with that gun,” came calmly enough from Jeems. “Yo’ ain’t a-goin’ to risk shootin’—”

  “There ain’t no witnesses here, kid. And there ain’t no law back in these swamps. Yuh’re gonna tell the Boss what he wants to know an’ yuh’re gonna spill it quick, see? I know some ways of making guys squeal—”

  At that suggestion Val’s fingers tightened on his club and Ricky choked back a cry as her brother crept toward the corner of the cabin. Their melodrama was fast taking on the color of tragedy.

  “So yuh better speak up.” Red was still encouraging Jeems.

  There was no immediate answer from the swamper, but Ricky touched Val’s arm and nodded toward the bushes. She had decided that it was time for her to leave. He agreed eagerly. She dropped lightly to the ground and he watched her crawl away unnoticed by those in front who were so intent upon the baiting of their quarry.

  “Three minutes, swamper!”

  Ricky was gone, free from whatever might develop. Val edged forward and for the first time peered around the corner of the cabin. The two assailants were still only voices, but he could see Jeems. The swamper’s face was bruised and there was a smear of dried blood across one cheek as if he had already been roughly handled. But he stood at ease, facing the cabin. His hands were hanging loosely at his sides and he was seemingly unconcerned by what confronted him. Suddenly his eyes flickered to the bushes at one side. Had Ricky betrayed herself, Val wondered breathlessly.

  Clear now of the cabin, Val wriggled his way around the platform. In a minute he would be able to see the Boss and Red. He gripped the club.

  Then Jeems stared straight into his face. But the swamper gave no sign of seeing Val. And that, to the boy’s mind, was the greatest feat of all that afternoon. For Val knew that if he had been in Jeems’ place he would have betrayed them both in his surprise.

  The others were at last visible, their backs to Val. Nervously he sized them up. The Boss was tall and thin, but his movements suggested possession of wiry strength. Red, his brick-colored hair making him easy to identify, was shorter and thick across the shoulders, but his waistline was also thick and the boy thought that his wind was bad. Of the two, the Boss was the more dangerous. Red might lose his head in a sudden attack, but not the Boss. Val decided to tackle the latter.

  Slowly he got from his knees to his feet. After the first quick glance, Jeems hadn’t looked at him, but Val knew that the swamper was ready and waiting to take advantage of any diversion he might make.

  “Three minutes are up, swamper. So yuh’ve decided to be tough, eh?”

  “Whatta yo’ wanna know?” Jeems’ question was silly but it held their attention.

  “We have told you several times,” answered the Boss, his temper beginning to fray visibly. “What is the trick of getting into that house?”

  “Well,” Jeems raised his hand to rub his ear, “yo’ turn to the left—”

  So he agreed with the listener. Val was to take the Boss on his left. He gathered his feet under him for the leap which he hoped would land him full upon the invader.

  “Yes?” prompted the man impatiently as Jeems hesitated. At that moment Val sprang.

  But his game leg betrayed him again. Instead of landing cleanly upon the other, he came down draggingly across the Boss’ shoulders. The gun roared and then the attacked man lashed back a vicious blow which split the skin over Val’s cheek-bone.

  For the next three minutes Val was more than occupied. His opponent was a dirty fighter, and when he had recovered from his surprise he was more than the boy could handle. Val’s club was twisted out of his hands, and he found himself fighting wildly to keep the man’s clawing fingers from his eyes. They were both rolling on the ground, flailing out at each other. Twice Val tasted his own blood when one of the enemy’s vicious jabs glanced along his face. Either blow would have finished Val had it landed clean.

  Then in a sudden turn the Boss caught him in a deadly body-lock which left him half-stunned and panting, at his mercy. And there was no mercy in the man. When Val looked up into that flushed, snarling face, he knew that he was as hopeless as a trapped animal. The man could—and would—finish him at his leisure.

  “This way, Rupert! Sam!” the cry reached even Val’s dulled ears.

  The man above him stirred. The boy saw the blood-lust fade from his eyes and apprehension take its place. He got to his feet, launching a last bruising kick at Val’s ribs before he limped across the clearing. On his way he hauled Red to his feet. They were going, not toward the path from the bayou, but around the house on the trail that Jeems had followed. Val struggled up and looked around. The turf was torn and gouged. In the dust lay his club and Red’s revolver.

  And by the steps lay something else, a slight brown figure. Painfully the boy got to his feet and lurched across to Jeems.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Ralestones Bring Home a Reluctant Guest

  The swamper was lying on his back, his eyes closed. From a great purple welt across his forehead the blood oozed sluggishly. When Val touched him he moaned faintly.

  “Val! Are you hurt? What’s the matter?” Ricky was upon them like a whirlwind out of the bush.

  “Jeems stopped a nasty one,” her brother panted.

  “Is he—” She dropped down in the dust beside them.

  “He’s knocked out, and he’ll have a bad headache for some time, but I don’t think it’s any worse than that.”

  Ricky had pulled out a microscopic bit of handkerchief and was dabbing at the blood in an amateurish way. Jeems moaned and turned his head as if to get away from her ministrations.

  “Where’s Rupert—and Sam?” Val looked toward the path. “They were with you, weren’t they?”

  Ricky shook her head. “No. That was just what you call creating a diversion. For all I know, they’re busy at home.”

  Her brother straightened. “Then we’ve got to get out of here—fast. Those two left because they were rattled, but when they have had a chance to cool off they’ll be back.”

  “What about Jeems?”

  “Take him with us, of course. We won’t be able to manage the canoe. But you brought the outboard, so we’ll go in
that and tow the canoe. We ought to have something to cover his head.” Val regarded the bleeding wound doubtfully.

  Without answering, Ricky leaned forward and began systematically going through Jeems’ pockets. In the second she found a key. Val took it from her and hobbled up the cabin steps. For a wonder, he thought thankfully, the key was the right one. The lock clicked and he went in.

  Like the clearing, the interior of the one-room shack was neat, a place for everything and everything in its place. Under the window in the far wall was a small chest of some dark polished wood. Save for its size, it was not unlike the chests the Ralestones had found in their store-room. Opposite it was a wooden cot, the covers smoothly spread. A stool, a blackened cook stove, and a solid table with an oil lamp were the extent of the furnishings. Lines of traps hung on the walls, along with the wooden boards for the stretching of drying skins, and there was a half-finished grass basket lying on top of the chest.

  Val hefted a stoneware jug. They had no time to hunt for a spring. And if this contained water, they would need it. At the resulting gurgle from within, he set it by the door and returned to rob the cot of pillow and the single coarse but clean sheet.

  Ricky tore the sheet and made a creditable job of washing and bandaging the ugly bruise. Jeems drank greedily when they offered him water but he did not seem to recognize them. In answer to Ricky’s question of how he felt, he muttered something in the swamp French of the Cajuns. But he was uneasy until Val locked the cabin door and put the key in his hand.

  “How are we going to get him to the boat?” asked Ricky suddenly.

  “Carry him.”

  “But, Val—” for the first time she looked at her brother as if she really saw him—“Val, you’re hurt!”

  “Just a little stiff,” he hastened to assure her. “Our late visitors play rather rough. We’ll manage all right. I’ll take his shoulders and you his feet.”

  They wavered drunkenly along the path. Twice Val stumbled and regained his balance just in time. Ricky had laid the pillow across their burden’s feet, declaring that she would need it when they got to the boat. Val passed the point of aching misery—when he thought that he could not shuffle forward another step—and now he came into what he had heard called “second wind.” By fixing his eyes on a tree or a bush a step or two ahead and concentrating only upon passing that one, and then that, and that, he got through without disgracing himself.

  At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into the boat. Val had no doubt that a woodsman might have done the whole job better in much less time and without a tenth of the effort they had expended. But all he ever wondered afterward was how they ever did it at all.

  It was when Ricky had made their passenger as comfortable as she could in the bottom of the boat, steadying his head across her knees, that her brother partially relaxed.

  “Val, you run the engine,” she said without looking up.

  He dragged himself toward the stern of the boat, remembering too late, when he had cast off, that he had not taken the canoe in tow. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then settled down to a steady putt-putt. They were off.

  “Val, do you—do you think he is badly hurt?”

  He dared not look down; it required all his powers of concentration on what lay before them to keep his hand steady.

  “No. We’ll get a doctor when we get back. He’ll come around again in no time—Jeems, I mean.”

  But would he? Head injuries were sometimes more serious than they seemed, Val remembered dismally.

  It was not until they came out into the main bayou that Jeems roused again. He looked up at Ricky in a sort of dull surprise, and then his gaze shifted to Val.

  “What—”

  “We won the war,” Val tried to grin, an operation which tore his mask of dried blood, “thanks to Ricky. And now we’re going home.”

  At that, Jeems made a violent effort to sit up.

  “Non!” his English deserted him and he broke into impassioned French.

  “Yes,” Val replied firmly as Ricky pushed the swamper down. “Of course you’re coming with us. You’ve had a nasty knock on the head that needs attention.”

  “Ah’m not a-goin’ to no hospital!” His eyes burned into Val’s.

  “Certainly not!” cried Ricky. “You’re bound for our guest-room. Now keep quiet. We’ll be there soon.”

  “Ah ain’t a-goin’,” he declared mutinously.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ricky scolded him; “we’re taking you. Does Val have to come and hold you down?”

  “Ah can’t!” His eyes flickered from Val’s face to hers. There was something more than independence behind that firm refusal. “Ah ain’t a-goin’ theah.”

  “Why not?”

  He seemed to shrink from her. “It ain’t fitten,” he murmured.

  “How perfectly silly,” laughed Ricky. But Val thought that he understood.

  “Because of the secret you know?” he asked quietly.

  The pallor beneath Jeems’ heavy tan vanished in a flush of slow-burning red. “Ah reckon so,” he muttered, but he met Val’s eyes squarely.

  “Let’s leave all explanations until later,” Val suggested.

  “Ah played haunt!” the confession came out of the swamper in a rush.

  “Then you were my faceless ghost?”

  Jeems tried to nod and the action printed a frown of pain between his eyes.

  “Why? Didn’t you want us to live there?” asked Ricky gently.

  “Ah was huntin’—”

  “What for?”

  The frown became one of puzzlement. “Ah don’t know—” His voice trailed off into a thin whisper as his eyes closed wearily. Val signaled Ricky to keep quiet.

  “Ahoy there!” Along the bank toward them came Rupert and after him Sam. Beyond them lay the Ralestone landing. Val headed inshore.

  “Just what does this mean—Val! Has there been an accident?” The irritation in Rupert’s voice became hot concern.

  “An intended one,” his brother replied. “We’ve got the real victim here with us.”

  They tied up to the landing and Sam came down to hand out Jeems who apparently had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  “You’d better call a doctor,” Val told Rupert. “Jeems has a head wound.”

  But Rupert had already taken charge of affairs with an efficiency which left Val humbly grateful. The boy didn’t even move to leave the boat. It was better just to sit and watch other people scurry about. Sam had started for the house, carrying Jeems as if the long-legged swamper was the same age and size as his own small son. Ricky dashed on ahead to warn Lucy. Rupert had Sam Two by the collar and was giving him instructions for catching Dr. LeFrode, who was probably making his morning rounds and might be found at the sugar-mill where one of the feeders had injured his hand. Sam Two’s sister had seen the doctor on his way there a scant ten minutes earlier.

  Val watched all this activity dreamily. Everything would be all right now that Rupert was in charge. He could relax—

  “Now,” his brother turned upon Val, “just what did—What’s the matter with you?”

  “Tired, I guess,” Val said ruefully. But Rupert was already in the boat, getting the younger boy to his unsteady feet.

  “Can you make it to the house?” he asked anxiously.

  “Sure. Just give me an arm till I get on the landing.”

  But when Val had crawled up on the levee he did not feel at all like walking to the house. Then Rupert’s arm was about his thin shoulders and he thought that he could make it if he really tried.

  The garden path seemed miles long, and it was not until Val had the soft cushions of the hall couch under him that he felt able to tell his story. But at that moment the short, stout doctor came through the door in a rush. Sam Two had led him to believe that half the household had been murdered. At first Dr. LeFrode started toward Val, until in alarm the boy swung his feet to the floor and sat up, waving the man to the stairway where Ricky ho
vered to act as guide.

  Then Val was alone, even Sam Two having edged upstairs to share in the excitement. The boy sank back on his pillows and wondered where their late assailants were now, and why they had been so determined to learn Jeems’ secret. As Ricky had said once before, the Ralestones seemed to have been handed a gigantic tangle without ends, only middle sections, and had been told to unravel it.

  Boot heels clicked on the stone flooring. Val turned his head cautiously and tried not to wince. Rupert was coming in with a bowl of water, from which steam still arose. Across his arm lay a towel and in his other hand was their small first-aid kit.

  “Suppose we do a little patching,” he suggested. “Your face at present is not all it might be. What did you and your swamp friend do—run into a mowing machine?” He swabbed delicately at the cut the Boss had opened across Val’s cheek-bone, and at another by his mouth.

  “I thought it might be that for a moment—a mowing machine, I mean. No, we just met a couple of gentlemen—enterprising fellows who wanted to see more of this commodious mansion of ours—” Val’s words faded into a sharp hiss as Rupert applied iodine with a liberal hand. “They seemed to think that Jeems knew a lot about Pirate’s Haven and they were going to persuade him to tell all. Only it didn’t turn out the way they had planned.”

  “Due to you?” Rupert eyed his brother intently. The boy’s face was swollen almost out of recognition and he didn’t like this sudden talkativeness.

  “Due partly to me, but mostly to Ricky. She—ah—created the necessary diversion. I had sort of lost interest at the time. I know so little about gouging and biting in clinches.”

  “Dirty fighters?”

  “Well, soiled anyway. But if the Boss isn’t nursing a cracked wrist, it isn’t my fault. I don’t know what Jeems did to Red, but he, too, departed in a damaged condition. Do you have to do that?” Val demanded testily, squirming as Rupert ran his hands lightly over the boy’s shoulders and down his ribs, touching every bruise to tingling life.

  “Just seeing the extent of the damage,” he explained.

  “You don’t have to see, I can feel!” Val snapped pettishly.