Collection 1986 - Night Over The Solomons (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Who sent you here?” von Walrath demanded. “From what office do you work?”

  “Office?” Turk shrugged. He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “I work for Turk Madden. I’m in this for myself. I’m goin’ to get all the dope I can, and sell to the highest bidder.”

  “The United States?” Farales asked gently. He was studying Turk through narrowed eyes. “Why should they pay? They already know.”

  “Do they?” Madden shrugged again. “But you may find out something they won’t know. Also, they may want to know how much you know.”

  “And that’s why you’re here. To find out how much we know. That’s why your government sent you here.” Farales’ voice was silky.

  “My government?” Turk raised an eyebrow. “What is my government? I fought for China before I fought for the United States. I fought for them because they paid me well, and because I like the winning side. They were a cinch to win.”

  Von Walrath’s eyes were cold. “Then you did not believe we Germans could win? The greatest military power on earth?”

  Madden chuckled. “Why the greatest? Who did you ever lick? Nobody I can remember except a lot of little countries who never had a war. It’s like Joe Louis punching a lot of guys who ride a subway. Anybody can lick an average guy if he’s got some stuff. Germany was ready for war, the other countries weren’t. Germany never whipped a major power who was even half ready for war.”

  “No?” Von Walrath sat up stiffly. “And why did we lose this one?”

  “Mainly because you never had a chance.” Turk warmed to his subject. “Any war can be figured on paper before it begins. You didn’t have the natural resources. You were cut off from the countries that had them. You didn’t have the industry.”

  “Next time,” von Walrath replied coolly, “we won’t need it. Atomic bombs change everything.”

  “That’s right. The smallest nation has a chance now.”

  “Even,” Farales suggested, “Argentina.”

  Von Walrath stood up suddenly. “Where is your plane now?” he demanded.

  “Around,” Madden rested his elbows on his knees. His .45 was lying on the table not a dozen feet away. “Supposing we make a deal. You slip me a chunk of dough, and I keep my plane out of this? Your man Messner can’t keep it out. I can.”

  “And why can’t Messner keep it out?” Farales demanded.

  “First place,” Turk looked up from under his eyebrows. He had his feet drawn back and was on his toes now, “because he won’t try. Why hasn’t he communicated with you? I’ll tell you why: because he hasn’t any intention of it. Because he has another deal pending.”

  “You lie!” von Walrath hissed furiously. “I will vouch for Messner!”

  Turk chuckled. “Listen, you guys. You’re not so dumb. Who will pay most to get the atomic secret now? Who wants it worst? Not as a weapon, but just to make things more equal, to give herself more confidence. I ask you: who wants it? Soviet Russia!”

  He lighted another cigarette. “What do you think they’d pay? A hundred thousand? Yes, and maybe more. Maybe a million. If a man had the secret, he could ask plenty, and get it! What can a poverty-stricken Germany give Messner? What can even the Argentine give Messner? Would he get a million from them? From you? Not a chance! What can we give your friend Messner?”

  Farales’ sardonic black eyes lifted to von Walrath. “He speaks wisely, Señor. What can we give your friend Messner?”

  “He lies.” Von Walrath’s eyes were blaring, yet Madden knew he had injected an element of doubt into the Prussian’s minds. “Messner is loyal.”

  “Then why has he not communicated with us? He is days overdue.” Farales looked at Madden. “How long have you been here?”

  “We landed a week ago,” he lied.

  “A week, and still no word. How is this, Walrath?” Farales’ voice was cold. “Four times in that week has our plane been at the prescribed places. And it cannot be far. This man walked.”

  “Wait until the plane comes today before you speak. Messner probably has been unable to get away.”

  Madden could see that the Baron was uncertain. “There will be word today.”

  “No,” Turk said coolly, “there won’t.”

  He had been stalling for time. Stock was across the room now, mixing a drink. No one was near the table where the gun lay.

  “What do you mean?” von Walrath demanded. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Simply,” Turk said, this was going to be close, “because your pilot is dead, and your patrol plane crashed. It’s lying up there,” he pointed suddenly toward the wide window and the Dome of St. Paul, “burned to a crisp!”

  As he pointed, their heads almost automatically turned, and he was out of his chair and had made three steps before Farales swung and saw him. It was too late. Turk hurled himself at the table, grabbed the automatic and swung with his back to the table. Farales’ shout brought a crash from Stock as he wheeled, dropping the glass and grabbing for his gun. Turk shot him in the stomach, and then wheeling, he hurled himself, shoulder first, through the window.

  * * *

  IT WAS NO more than six feet to the ground. The instant he hit he flattened against the building and ran along it close to the wall until he reached the end of the house.

  The shore there was high, lifting in a straight bank at least ten feet above the shelving gravel beach. He jumped off the bank to the gravel, landing on his feet, and fell back into a sitting position.

  As he fell backward, he saw a man on the motor launch grab a rifle, and he blasted with the Colt from where he sat. The bullet hit the cabin of the boat and laced a white scar across its polished side. The man fell over, and then the glass crashed as the fellow thrust the rifle through a cabin port. Turk was on his feet then, but he wheeled and put two quick shots through that port, and then he was running.

  He had made a dozen steps before a rifle cracked and a shot hit the rocks ahead of him and whined viciously away over the water. He zigged right, and then dodged back, and seeing a cut in the bank, dropped behind it just as several more shots struck nearby.

  He paused just an instant, caught a quick breath, and then ran up the cut. Ahead of him it ended near a cliff and the forest came up to the foot of the cliff. Yet there he would have to dodge across twenty feet of open country before he could make the forest.

  “That German is a shot, or I miss my guess,” Turk told himself. “He’ll have his sights set on that open place, and I’m a dead pigeon!”

  Yet even as he reached the end of the water cut, he saw there was a deep hollow and another water drain that fell sharply away. The water that had made the deeper hole had fallen off a corner of the cliff around the shoulder. Perhaps he could get across.

  A huge root thrust itself out, and sticking his gun in its holster, he jumped. It was a terrific leap, but his hands just grasped the root, and he swung with all the impetus of his leap and hurled himself at the bank opposite.

  He hit it, chest first, and grabbed wildly at the edge. Dust and rock cascaded into his face, and suddenly a rifle barked, and a shot smacked into the bank right between his clutching hands!

  Frightened, he gave a mighty heave and hurled himself over the edge and rolled into the woods. A bullet clipped a tree over his head, and he scrambled to his feet and floundered away in the knee deep moss. Then he saw a fallen log and, leaping atop it, he ran its length, swung by a branch to another, and ran along it.

  It wasn’t going to be enough to get away. He had to lose them. Yet on one side was the plain, and if pushed into the open they would cut him down in an instant. On the other side was the river.

  His breath was coming in great grasps, and his lungs cried out with pain at the effort. Yet he kept on, for speed meant everything now.

  He had crossed a small clearing and was entering the woods along the river when suddenly another shot rang out, and he plunged head first into the soft, yielding moss. The shot had come from in front of him!r />
  Turk Madden was mad. Suddenly, something had seemed to burst inside of him. The traitor, whoever he was, was up ahead, trying to kill him.

  “All right!” Madden said suddenly, savagely, “if you want it you can have it!”

  He slid the Colt into his hand. Four shots left. He felt in his pocket for the extra clip. Well, they hadn’t taken that! Flat in the moss, he began to worm his way through the damp green softness, gun in hand, a fierce, leaping rage within him.

  He crawled, and he felt the moss thinning. Was the watcher keeping an eye on him? This guy knew a thing or two, as he was the same one who had dusted the brush so thoroughly on that first day. There was a crashing in the brush back the way he came. Wish he’d shoot some of his own men!

  Another crash and then he could hear someone breathing hard. The man had stopped to stare around. Slowly, Turk gathered his knees under him, and then he straightened.

  The man, a huge fellow with a blackish, greasy face, was not ten feet away!

  As Turk arose, the fellow stared stupidly, then gave a gulp and jerked up the rifle. He was much too slow. Turk put a bullet through his heart, then sprang across the ten feet of space, and grabbed the man’s rifle. Then, without hesitating, he threw the rifle to his shoulder and dusted the woods, firing ten shots and spacing them neatly across the forest behind him.

  * * *

  THEN HE DROPPED the rifle and plunged down to the gravel shore of the stream. For thirty minutes he twisted and turned in the woods, and then finally straightened out and headed for home. As he walked, he exchanged clips.

  As he came up to the shelter, he found Shan Bao, a carbine in his hands, standing by the door.

  “Where are the others?” Turk asked.

  “Around. They all went out into the brush. Thought we might be attacked. Each one took a position.” Shan Bao looked at Madden’s head, and the blood. “You have had trouble,” he said. “I hope you killed the man who did that.”

  Turk dug out a cigarette and lighted it. Then he looked at the Manchu.

  “I don’t know, Shan, but he’s got one in the stomach he wishes he didn’t have!”

  Runnels came out of the woods. He looked flurried, and his eyes were narrow. He glanced at Turk’s head.

  “Looks like you had it tough!”

  “Plenty!” Turk snapped. “Better get your gear aboard the plane. We’re moving!”

  “Moving?” he frowned. “Winkler won’t like that. Better wait to see what he says. After all this is his show.”

  “Up to a point,” Turk Madden replied shortly. “That happens to be my plane. Anyway, they came too close just now. They’ll be back. We can’t stay here.”

  “And why shouldn’t we stay here?” It was Major Winkler. His face was hot and his eyes looked angry. “I heard what you said, Madden, and we’re staying, whether you like it or not.”

  “No,” Turk replied shortly, “we’re not. At least, I’m not. I’m taking my ship and getting out. I’m going back in the hills until tomorrow, back where we’ll all be safe!”

  “You’ll stay right here.” Winkler’s carbine lifted, and Turk cursed himself for a fool. “You’ll stay here, and like it. Panola, tie him up! This is mutiny. I’m in command here. We’re in no danger, and we’ll stay right here until tomorrow.”

  “I don’t believe the gun is necessary, Major,” Runnels protested. “Madden will stay.”

  “You bet he’ll stay!” Winkler declared sharply. “I’ll personally see that he stays. Tie him!”

  Runnels looked at Panola, and the Italian shrugged, then he stepped forward and jerked Turk’s hands behind him. Yet even as Panola tied his hands, Turk knew the officer was not tying him tight. Was it because he sympathized or because he hoped he would try to escape, and be shot escaping?

  Tied on his bed, Turk relaxed and lay quiet. How soon the Baron would find them, he couldn’t guess. Obviously, it couldn’t be long. The possible areas now were so limited, for they knew he had come from some place within walking distance, which meant no more than ten miles, or perhaps a bit more. It was rough, rugged country, but they would be looking.

  Working a little, he loosened his ropes. Major Winkler had been lying down for several minutes now, and Runnels was sitting in the door.

  Panola was nowhere in sight. Had he gone to warn von Walrath finally to make contact? Yet somehow, despite the apparently obvious evidence, Turk found himself doubting that Panola was the guilty man. But even that left only Runnels and Winkler, and Winkler was in command. He would be blamed for the success or failure of the effort.

  Winkler got up suddenly and walked outside. He said something to Runnels about being nervous.

  “Nothing must happen now,” he muttered.

  Turk lay still. His hands were free. Now where was Shan Bao? He drew his knees up and worked on the ropes on his ankles. Runnels still sat in the doorway. There was no sign of Panola or Major Winkler.

  He put one foot down beside the cot, then turned carefully and sat up. Runnels had not moved. His head lay against the door post, and he was apparently asleep. Turk got up and in two quick steps had crossed the room to his carbine.

  He picked up a handful of extra clips and thrust them into his pockets. He retrieved his automatic and more ammunition, then he stepped over to the back wall. In a few minutes he had worked his way through the branches and leaves of the shelter and stood outside.

  A shot rang out, and he heard a muffled curse, and then he saw men come streaming into camp. He had made it none too soon. He saw Runnels start up and then go crashing down as he was struck by a gun butt. Then they charged inside, and he heard a shout as they failed to find him.

  “And they knew where to look,” Madden said viciously.

  * * *

  HE MOVED SWIFTLY through the darkness toward the cliff. He knew where he was going now. He needed shelter, and there was the cave above. He climbed swiftly, and found his way to the cave. For a while he had been afraid he would not able to find it in the dark, but he did. Then he crawled in and lay still.

  They were searching down below, and he heard the voice of von Walrath as well as that of Farales. Something had gone wrong, apparently something more than the fact that he was gone. They kept searching, then finally gave up. But they remained below. He was bottled up, unable to do a thing.

  Where was Shan Bao? Had Runnels been killed? And what of the others? Unable to sit still, he turned on his flashlight, shielding it with his hand, and went to the back of the cave. It was a steep, winding passage, and he went down, walking swiftly. It took a sharp turn, and suddenly he realized it was going toward the shore of the pool!

  There was dampness here, and occasional pools of water. He walked on, then feeling the air moving against his face, he proceeded more cautiously. It was a large opening, almost concealed behind a fallen log. But he was looking over the pool—and there, not a dozen feet away, was the Goose!

  How far had he walked? And what was the Goose doing here?

  Considering, he realized he must have walked at least twenty minutes inside the cave. He could have come a mile, but probably it was no more than half that far. In his mind he ran his eyes along the edge of the pool. Then he knew. Somehow, some way, the Goose had been slipped away and hidden in this inlet at the extreme end of the pool.

  It was only a delay, for with daylight they would find it with ease. And by daylight the Goose should be winging out to sea instead of lying here.

  He crawled over the log, then moved ahead slowly, carefully. He was going to be aboard that plane or dead within the next few minutes. Suddenly, right ahead of him, something moved.

  Turk froze. Then he saw a tall, lean form rise before him. Instantly, he grinned with relief. Shan Bao!

  “Shan!” he whispered hoarsely, and saw the figure stiffen. Then the Manchu turned and beckoned.

  “What is it?” Madden whispered as he came up. “How’d the plane get here!”

  “Panola,” Shan replied softly. “Panola and me.
”

  “Panola?” Madden scowled. Then Panola wasn’t the one. Crawling out along a log to the door of the ship, he puzzled over that. Then he slipped in. The Italian moved, and touched his arm.

  “Madden? Man, I’m glad you’re here! I can’t fly this thing good enough. We towed her down here with the rubber boat. Maybe we can take off.”

  “We can!” Turk shifted his carbine. “Panola, who’s the traitor, Runnels or Winkler?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You mean one of them isn’t on the level?”

  “That’s right. And I thought it was you! You, because of your rifle. Somebody fired on me that first day, and your rifle was the only one fired that day.”

  Panola grabbed his arm.

  “But Turk!” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t have my own gun that day. I got another by mistake. Major Winkler had mine!”

  “Major Winkler?” Turk’s jaw set. “Then Winkler is Wilhelm Messner, the Gestapo agent!”

  He turned sharply. “Panola, you stay with this ship. Stay with it and don’t let anybody aboard but Shan or me. I’m going ashore.”

  “But what can you do?” Panola protested. “Only two of you?”

  “Watch!” Turk snapped harshly. “Shan is worth a dozen. Watch, and you’ll see how it’s done. This isn’t cricket, but it’s business!”

  He walked back to the gun case and took out a submachine gun, and slid in a magazine. He thrust three more in his belt. Then he went ashore. He went through the woods fast with Shan, also armed with a submachine gun, following close behind.

  There was no effort at concealment when he stepped up toward the shelter. His very carelessness made the guard relax. Turk stepped out of the brush and saw the guard suddenly stiffen. Then he let out a low cry and grabbed for his gun.