Collection 2003 - From The Listening Hills (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Gray light was showing in the east, and he shifted position suddenly, nervously, realizing he had been still too long. And as he changed position he heard a voice behind him say, “Right there, Molina. Hold it right there.”

  With what had happened to Pike fresh in his mind, he threw himself to the side and rolled over in the darkness and came up, firing at the dart of flame before he heard the sound of the shot. He heard the hard impact of a bullet on flesh and dove forward as a bullet struck where he had been.

  Farther off there was a sudden drum of gunshots. He held his fire, and glanced swiftly toward his camp.

  Hale was gone.

  The wagon was dark, but there was nobody under the wagon where reflected light had shown the long dark bundle of Barnes, sleeping.

  Nearby Molina could hear the slow, heavy breathing of an injured man, but the fellow might be waiting for a shot and he dared not move. There were leaves and brush under the trees, and while he had not made any sound moving, the next step might not be so fortunate. Yet he had moccasins on…he put a foot out carefully as he straightened up, testing the ground. It was soft earth. Carefully, he let his weight down.

  Then he saw the man who had tried to take him. He was down on the ground but he was still gripping a gun.

  Squatting, he felt around on the ground and found a dead branch, fallen from one of the trees above. He straightened up but did not throw it. Instead, reaching off to one side with the branch, he made faint rustling sounds in the brush. Instantly the shot came and he fired in reply.

  The camp was very still. Carefully, he worked his way to the man he had shot and picked up his pistol, then stripped the gun belt from the body and looped it over his shoulder after loading the extra pistol and tucking it in his belt.

  Hale had vanished; so had Barnes. Nowhere was there a sign of anyone. It was so still he could hear the horses cropping grass.

  It would soon be light, and what happened after that would settle things here. He had not found the gold, and he had no intention of leaving without it. One of the outlaws was down, but the other shooting he had dimly heard while he was fighting his own battle might mean anything or nothing.

  Hale had vanished at the first shot, but was he alive? Or injured and lying hidden?

  Molina moved to the shelter of a large tree, then lowered himself to the ground. His rifle was in camp and he would need it. Crawling, keeping to the shelter of the brush, which was sparse but in the darkness sufficient cover, he got back to a place close to their own fire. Only gray coals remained, a slow thread of smoke rising in the still air of the hour before dawn.

  The sky in the east was gray with a shading of lemon near the horizon.

  Nothing moved.

  And then there was movement, the slightest stirring in the darkness near the rear wheel of the wagon, and a faint glint of light on a rifle barrel. Barnes was lying there with a rifle, probably the buffalo gun Molina had seen him with earlier. And on whose side was Barnes?

  Neutral, Molina decided, neutral and protecting himself while the others fought it out, and then he would do his part. So there was that to consider during whatever took place now, and whoever won must be prepared to handle Barnes.

  Dawn came slowly on the high plains, the sun rising behind far gray clouds. Barnes was discernible now, sitting at the rear wheel of the big wagon, his rifle ready for use, an armed spectator.

  Ruth got down from the wagon and went to the fire. Adding fuel she built up the fire and put on a coffeepot. Then she went quietly about the business of preparing breakfast. Molina glanced at her from time to time, astonished at her coolness in the midst of a situation where shooting might break out again at any moment.

  From where he lay he could cover the area at Wagon Camp. His only danger was if someone got behind a big clump of prickly pear off on his left and outside the grove of trees and brush. Some of that pear was tall as a man, and it was a big clump, banked with drifted sand. It made him uneasy, and he wanted to move, but there was no chance.

  Desperately, he wanted his rifle, and he could see the stock from where he lay. Beyond it he could see a man’s shoulder and hand. It was Hale.

  The Pinkerton man lay in the slight hollow at the seep, a hollow just deep enough to give him the slightest cover, but whether he was alive or dead, Molina could not see.

  Windblown sand had heaped up around some of the trees, but elsewhere the wind had scooped hollows, exposing the roots. No one of these places seemed adequate cover, and it was unbelievable that within this small area there should be four men hidden from each other.

  Four men who waited for the slightest move, four men ready to shoot and to kill…and at one side, an old man with a rifle, taking no part, but also ready to kill. And a girl who prepared a meal in the midst of it, who went about her task as though the scene were as peaceful as it actually appeared.

  An hour went by, and the wind skittered a few leaves along the ground, stirred the green hands of the cottonwoods.

  A storm was coming.…

  Immediately, Jake Molina began to think of how he could turn the storm to advantage. He had been waiting for the others to move…he would wait no longer.

  Hale had to have his prisoners, but all Molina had to have was the gold. Too many people needed that money, and although it would make none of them rich, it would help them through the bad times…especially the Gore family, who would have no husband now, and no father.

  And Hale might be dead…there had been no move from the shoulder he could see, or no move that he had observed.

  Taking his Colt from its holster, Molina touched his tongue to dry lips and stood up. He might outflank and drive them into the open, for where they were hidden there was no more shelter than either he or Hale had.

  He moved swiftly, dodging into a position behind another tree, and the shot that came was much too late…next time they would be prepared for him.

  Ruth had merely glanced up from her fire. Barnes had shifted position enough so that he was on one knee ready for the final shot, when his chance came.

  There was a big tree in the direction he was headed, not over fifteen feet away, but that was where they would expect him to go. Straight ahead of him was another cottonwood, almost in line with his present hiding place. He ducked around his tree and ran and as a head and a rifle came up he fired—fired as his right foot hit ground. He saw the man jerk and drop his rifle, drop from sight, and then a hand came swiftly up to grab the rifle.

  He was closer now, and he was out of the trees except to his right or left.

  He was sure the man in the hole had not been wounded badly, probably only a burn, or even more likely, just a bullet passed his ear. But enough to make him cautious about lifting his head.

  No move from Hale, and none from the second of the murderers, but Molina was not fooled…the other man was there, waiting.

  It was point-blank range now, and no chance to get to one of those trees to right or left, but it was no more than sixty feet to where the one man lay waiting. He swung his eyes, peering past the tree, trying to find the second man.

  Suddenly a voice called out, “Barnes! We’ll split even if you get Molina!”

  Barnes hesitated, and in that instant, Hale came up out of the basin by the pool, gun in hand. He took one quick step to the right and fired across the rocks behind the pool.

  The man opposite Molina started to rise and Molina sprang from behind his tree and ran three quick steps toward him, slid to a halt and fired. The gunman had leaped up, but the bullet caught him in the shoulder and spun him halfway around.

  Barnes lifted his rifle to fire and Ruth threw the coffeepot at him. It struck him alongside the head and ruined his aim. The buffalo gun went off into the air and Molina sprang into position half behind Monty Short where he could cover both the wounded Short and Barnes.

  And that was the end of it.

  Hale was walking toward them. “Van Hagan’s out of it,” he said. “Short, you’re wanted for robbery. I
’m a Pinkerton man.”

  Barnes got up slowly, holding the side of his head and moaning between agonized curses. The full coffeepot had not only scalded his face and shoulder, but the edge of the pot had cut his scalp and a thin trickle of blood ran down his face.

  Ruth calmly picked up her coffeepot, refilled it and put it on the fire. Her face was white and her eyes large with fright, and she avoided looking toward Van Hagan, who was sprawled on the ground near the pool.

  Molina walked over and picked up Barnes’ rifle, then held out his hand for his six-shooter. Barnes hesitated, but Molina merely looked at him and, reluctantly, the old man drew his gun and extended it carefully.

  “Drop it,” Molina said, “I’ll pick it up.”

  Hale was working to stop the blood in Short’s shoulder. He glanced over at Molina. “Where’s Stebbins?”

  “Over there,” Molina said, “but he isn’t going anyplace.”

  Barnes got up slowly. “All right,” he said, “we’ll be pullin’ out. You’ve no reason to hold me.”

  “You can go,” Molina said. “Ruth stays with us.”

  Barnes’ eyes flashed with anger. “She’s comin’ with me. She’s my own niece. You got no call—”

  “I am not your niece,” Ruth said, “and I am going with them.”

  “You give us any trouble,” Hale interrupted, “and we’ll take you in for aiding and abetting. We might not make the charge stick but she’ll go her own way nonetheless.”

  Barnes glared at them, then abruptly turned his back and went to get his horses.

  Hagan and Stebbins were both dead. With Monty Short handcuffed and Ruth ready to ride in on Stebbins’ horse, Hale looked at Molina. “Looks like I’ve scored…what about the gold?”

  Molina took the shovel from the wagon. “Why I’m going to get it now. Seems a man can be mighty slow to get things, sometimes.…Stands to reason, a man hiding something at night would have to drop it in a hole or cover it up. He couldn’t be sure at night whether or not it could be seen, otherwise. Now there aren’t any holes around, and if he did any digging the fresh dirt would be noticed even if the sound of digging wasn’t. So what’s the answer?”

  “You tell me,” Hale said.

  “Why someplace where he could dig with his hands and where it wouldn’t be noticed. That means drifted sand, to me.”

  Taking a shovel from the wagon he walked to the huge stand of prickly pear he had noticed before and walked around it until he found a place with an opening among the pear leaves and thorns that was large enough for a man to get a hand in without being badly scratched. The second shovel of sand disclosed the first of the sacks. In a few minutes he had them all.

  Molina put the gold in his saddlebags and then saddled his horse. As he mounted up, Barnes walked toward them.

  “What about my guns?” he protested.

  “Tell you what,” Molina said, “I’ll leave them with the marshal in Fort Griffin. Anytime you want them you just ride in and explain to him how you lost them. You do that and you can have them back.”

  TEN MILES AND more than two hours later, Hale glanced over at Molina. “You should be a Pinkerton man. We could use you.”

  “Once I get this gold to Mrs. Gore,” Molina replied, “I’ll be hunting a job.”

  He glanced at Ruth. “Helen Gore,” he said, “is a mighty fine woman. She could use a friend right now, and some help.”

  Where the trails forked at a clump of mesquite they drew up. “We’ll be leaving you,” Molina said. “Good luck.”

  Hale lifted a hand. “Come and see us,” he said. “And thanks.”

  Monty Short, handcuffed, threw him a hard stare. “You get no thanks from me.”

  “You should,” Molina said, “you’re alive.”

  Flight to the North

  TURK MADDEN NOSED the Grumman down gently and cut his motor, gliding in toward the dark waters of the cove. A dead stick landing on strange water in the middle of the night, and no flares to be chanced—it was asking for trouble.

  True he had been assured by the Soviet Intelligence that it could be done, that the cove was wide enough and deep enough, and there were no dangers to navigation.

  “If I get away with this,” he muttered savagely, “anything can happen! And,” he added grimly, “it probably will!”

  It was bright moonlight, and he swung in toward the still waters of the cove with no noise save the wind-wash past the plane. The dark water lifted toward him, the amphibian hit lightly, then slid forward to a landing.

  He would turn her around before the ship lost momentum. Then if anything happened…

  The shore was dark; ominously still. If Powell and Arseniev were there they were to signal with a flashlight, but there was no signal. Madden hesitated, fuming inwardly. If he took off and left them, it would mean abandoning them to death. But if something had happened, if the plot had been discovered, then it would mean his own death to delay.

  Suddenly he found himself wishing he was back in the East Indies running his airline in person instead of being up here in a lonely inlet on the coast of the Japanese island of Hokkaido waiting to pick up two secret agents.

  From a single plane flown by himself, he had built his passenger, express, and freight service to three ships operating among the remote islands of the Indies. Then, wanting a change, he had taken a charter flight to Shanghai. From there he had flown for the British government to Vladivostok, only to be talked into flying down the coast of Japan to pick up Powell and Arseniev.

  Arseniev he had known in China. He had been flying for Chiang Kai-shek when the OGPU agent had been working with Borodin and Galen.

  He liked the Russian, and they had been through the mill together; so he accepted the offer.

  Madden glanced shoreward again, tempted to take off. Then with a grunt of disgust he heaved his two-hundred-pound frame out of the pilot’s seat, let go his anchor, and got his rubber boat into the water. “This is asking for it,” he growled to himself, “but I can’t leave while there’s a chance they’re still ashore. If the Japanese found them now, a firing squad would be the best they’d get.”

  The moonlight was deceiving, and the rocky shore was dark. Filled with misgiving, he paddled toward a narrow strip of beach. He made the boat fast to a log, and stepped out on the sand. Again he felt the urge to chuck the whole business, to get out while the getting was good. But he walked up the beach, stepping carefully.

  It was too quiet, too still. Where were the men? Had they been captured? Had they merely failed to make it? Or were they here, without a light, unable to signal?

  Loosening his gun in its holster, he stepped forward. He was rounding a boulder when he saw a shadow move. Instinctively, he crouched.

  “Move,” a cool voice said, “and I’ll shoot.”

  Turk knew when to stand still and when to move. Now he stood still. A dozen men materialized from the surrounding shadows and closed in. Swiftly, they took his gun and shoved him up the trail between them.

  “Well,” he told himself, “this is it.” The Japanese had no compunctions about their treatment of foreigners under any circumstances, and spies—well, death would be a break.

  Ahead of him was a low shack, barely discernible against a background of rocky cliffs. A voice challenged, and one of the Japanese replied, then a door opened, and they were revealed in a stream of light. Shoved rudely forward by his captors, Turk Madden almost fell through the door.

  Two men were lying on the floor, bound hand and foot. One was a slender, broad-shouldered man with the face of a poet. The other was short, powerful, his face brick-red, his eyes frosty blue. The latter grinned.

  “Sorry, old man,” he said, “we couldn’t make it. These blighters had us before we reached the cove.”

  Madden turned around, squinting his eyes against the glare. There were six Japanese in the room, aside from one with the attitude of an officer who sat at a table studying a chart. There was a coal oil light on the table beside him. None
of the men were uniformed, or showed any distinguishing marks. All were armed with automatics and rifles. One carried a light machine gun. Their behavior, however, was definitely military.

  The officer looked at Turk, his eyes narrow and heavy-lidded. “An American?” The Japanese smiled. “You sound like one. I am Colonel Kito Matasuro. I once lived in California.”

  “That makes us pals,” Madden assured him, grinning. “I was a deckhand once on a San Pedro tugboat.”

  “But now I am a soldier and you are a spy,” Matasuro murmured. “It is most unfortunate—most sad—but you must be shot.”

  He indicated Arseniev. “He will mean promotion for me. We have wanted him for some time. But like a shadow, he comes and goes. Now we have him. We catch three—we eliminate three.”

  Turk was acutely conscious of the flat hard butt of his .380 Colt automatic pressing against his stomach. It was inside his coat and shirt, but in his present predicament it might as well have been on the moon.

  Despite the harsh realization that his time was only a matter of minutes at best, Turk found himself puzzling over the situation. Why were these men, obviously military, on this stretch of lonely coast in civilian clothes? Why were they here at all? Only a short time before it had been reported devoid of human life, but now there were signs of activity all about him.

  Matasuro turned and rapped out orders. “Sorry,” he said, getting to his feet, “I would like to have talked to you of California. But duty calls—elsewhere.”

  With three of the men, he went out. From somewhere a motor roared into life, then another, and still another. A plane took off, and then the others followed. They sounded like pursuit jobs.

  For a few minutes they stood in silence. Then Madden said, without looking around, “Fyodor, I’m taking a chance at the first break.”

  “Sure,” the Russian said. “We’re with you.”

  One of the Japanese soldiers stepped forward, lifting his rifle threateningly. He spoke angrily, in Japanese.