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

by Louis L'Amour

  Roaring toward the ground he saw one of the pursuit ships streaking along the field, and he opened up with the guns. The ship was just clearing the trees at the end of the field when it dipped suddenly, smashed into the timber and burst into flame.

  The Grumman dove into the field so close that frightened Japanese scattered in every direction, then Arseniev pulled the bomb release, and Turk brought the ship out of the dive. For an instant he didn’t think the wings would stay with her, but they did, and the ship was shooting away over the trees when the thunder of the bursting bombs reached their ears. He did a quick wingover and started back, his forward armament chattering wickedly.

  He strafed the field from beginning to end, and a pursuit ship that had started to make the run for a takeoff spilled over into flame. He saw men start across the field.

  Behind him, Arseniev was busy dropping incendiary bombs, then the Grumman began to climb, and Turk looked back over his shoulder. Several blazes were burning furiously around the field, two planes had definitely crashed there, and several were on fire.

  He turned south. “We’re getting out of here, Fyodor. Better inform your boys!”

  Madden heard the voice replying behind him, then Arseniev switched off the radio.

  “There’s a force coming!” he yelled.

  Turk tooled the Grumman on south, then swung away from the mountains toward the marshes. Suddenly the motor stuttered, coughed, and Turk worked, his face changing. The motor sputtered again, missed, then died.

  “What is it?” Arseniev demanded.

  “Gas!” Turk indicated his fuel gauges. “Must have winged us as we were leaving.”

  He put the Grumman into a slow glide, studying the earth below. It was marshland, with occasional ponds and lakes. But all were small. Suddenly, just ahead, he saw one that was somewhat larger. He pushed the stick forward, leveled off, and landed smoothly on the lake water. With what momentum remained, Turk tooled the ship into a small opening in the marsh. Nearby was a small island of firm ground.

  “Better get on that radio and report,” Turk said. “I’m going to look around.”

  He tried a hummock of grass near the plane, and it was solid. A flock of birds flew past, staying low. Turk turned to look at them, scowling. Then he looked up, studying the sky. There were clouds about, and the wind was picking up, but not much yet. Along the horizon there was a low black fog.

  Suddenly, complete stillness fell over the marsh. Above, the clouds had ragged edges, and the black fog along the horizon suddenly lifted, and then the sun was covered.

  “Arseniev!” Turk shouted. “Quick! We’ve got to get the ship lashed down. We’re going to have a storm!”

  In a mounting wind they labored desperately, furiously. There were no birds in sight now, and it was beginning to snow. When the ship was lashed down, Madden turned, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to make some shelter!”

  “What about the ship?” Arseniev protested. “That will do, won’t it?”

  “Might be blown out on the lake. Start cutting reeds, and work like you’ve never worked before.” Turk glanced around hastily. “Don’t cut them there, or there. Just over there, and work fast!”

  The wind was blowing in gusts now, cold as ice, and the snow was lifting into the air. Turk bent his back and slashed reeds with the bolo he always carried in the ship, sweat broke out on his face despite the cold, but he labored on, swinging with his bolo like a madman. Uncertain, Arseniev followed suit, not sure why they were cutting, but working desperately against time.

  Leaping back to the bunches of reeds left uncut, Turk began binding them together with stout cord brought from the plane. Then he wove the long reeds closely together among the clumps, drawing them down low above the ground, and working the gathering snow close around the edges. Running to the plane, he caught up a canvas tarp and raced back, doubling it over on the ground under the covering of the reeds that was partly a hut, partly just a low shelter.

  Suddenly there was a shout from Arseniev. Turk looked up, wondering. Powell had somehow broken his bonds, and had leaped from the plane. Turk went for his gun, but his hands, numbed by cold, fumbled, and before he could draw it the man had leaped to a hummock of grass, dodged behind a clump of reeds, and when they next saw him he was running at full tilt over the marsh. Once he fell waist deep in water, then scrambled out, and trotted on.

  “Let him go,” Turk said. “Maybe it’s better than a firing squad, at that.”

  “What do you mean? You think—” Arseniev began.

  Turk shrugged. “He’s partly wet, he has no shelter, no weapons. What do you think? He’ll die before this night is out. Feel that wind, and imagine yourself wet—in that.”

  Arseniev shivered. “I can’t.” He looked around. “What now?”

  “Crawl in between the canvas,” Turk said. “I’ll join you in a minute.” He walked back and forth, piling the reeds over the canvas and feathering them against the wind. Then he trampled the snow down, and after a while, lifted the canvas and joined Arseniev.

  The instant he was inside it felt warmer; over them they could hear the lonely snarl of the wind, and out on the lake the lashing of the waves, but over their covering of reeds the snow sifted down, gathering over them in a thick, warm blanket.

  IT WAS MORNING when he awakened. He turned over slowly, warm and comfortable. No wind was blowing, but he knew that it was cold outside. He touched Arseniev on the shoulder, then crawled out.

  The world was white with snow everywhere. The lake was crusted with ice, and even the reeds bent heavily under the weight of the snow. The plane was almost covered with it.

  “We’ve got to make a fire,” Turk said, “and then uncover the ship. The way it is, a searching plane couldn’t find us.”

  Sweeping the snow from a place on the ground, Turk went back to the shelter and brought out a handful of dry reeds. Arseniev collected some driftwood from the edge of the lake, and soon a fire was ablaze. Then they went to work, clearing the snow from the ship. It was a job, but it kept them warm.

  Arseniev stopped once, looking over the white, empty expanse. “I wonder what his real name was?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Turk said. “I never heard.”

  It was an hour later when they heard the mutter of a plane. Soon it was circling above them, and then it leveled off and landed on solid earth not far away from the island where they’d spent the night.

  Two men came running to them over the frozen marsh. “Marchenko!” Arseniev yelled. “It is good to see you, believe me!” The other man was Bochkarev, a flyer noted for his Polar exploits. They shook hands all around.

  Two hours later, the Grumman was towed to solid earth and repaired. The big Russian ship took off, then the Grumman. Turk headed the ship south, toward Khabarovsk. They were flying low over the snow when Arseniev suddenly caught his arm.

  Powell.

  They knew him by the green scarf that trailed from his neck, a bright spot of color on a piece of ground swept clear by the driving wind. The man lay where he had fallen, frozen and still.

  Turk Madden eased back on the stick and climbed higher. Ahead of them, the sky was blue, and the sun was coming out from the clouds. In the clear cold air the sound of the motors was pleasant, a drumming roar of strength and beauty.

  Too Tough to Kill

  THE BIG TRUCK coughed and roared up the last few feet of the steep grade and straightened out for the run to Mercury. Pat Collins stared sleepily down the ribbon of asphalt that stretched into the darkness beyond the reach of the lights. Momentarily, he glanced down at Ruth. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. Even Deek Peters, the deputy sheriff detailed to guard him, had been lulled to sleep by the droning of the heavy motor and the warmth of the cab.

  Pat shook himself, and succeeded in opening his eyes wider. He had been going day and night for weeks it seemed. The three-hundred-mile run to Millvale and back was to be his last tri
p. Two weeks off for his honeymoon, and then back at a better job. Right now he and Ruth would have been on the train headed west if it hadn’t been for that killing.

  Why couldn’t Augie Petrone have been given the works somewhere else than right in front of his truck as he left Mercury! Because of that they had detained him several hours for questioning in Millvale, and now, knowing him to be the only witness, they had detailed Peters to guard him. He wished Tony Calva and Cokey Raiss would do their killing elsewhere next time. It had been them alright. He remembered them both from the old days when he had often seen them around, and had seen them both clearly as they pumped shot after shot into Petrone’s body as his car lay jammed against a fire hydrant. There had been another man, too, a big gunman. He hadn’t recognized him, but he would remember his face.

  Suddenly a long black car shot by the truck and wheeled to a stop. Almost in the same instant, three men piled out into the road. Two of them had tommy guns. For an instant Pat hesitated upon the verge of wheeling the truck into them, full speed. Then he remembered Ruth there beside him, Ruth the girl he had just married but a few hours before. With a curse he slammed on the brake as Deek Peters suddenly came to life.

  “Alright,” Calva snarled, motioning with the .45 he carried ready. “Out of that cab! One wrong move an’ I’ll blast the guts out of you!”

  Peters let out an oath, and whipped up his shotgun. The .45 barked viciously, and then again, and the deputy sheriff slumped from the seat to the pavement. Shakily, Pat helped Ruth down and they stood to one side. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she avoided looking at the tumbled body of the deputy.

  “Well, would you look who’s here!” Raiss grinned, stepping forward. “The smart boy who talks so much has brought his girlfriend along for us!”

  “Alright, you two!” Calva snapped. “Crawl in that car and don’t let’s have a single yap out of you!”

  Pat’s face was white and tense. Reassuringly, he squeezed Ruth’s hand, but his mouth felt dry, and he kept wetting his lips with his tongue. He knew Tony Calva and Cokey Raiss only too well. Both were killers. It was generally believed that Raiss had been the man behind the gun in most of the gang killings around Mercury in the past three years. Tony Calva was bodyguard for Dago John Fagan. There were two other men in the car, one sat at the wheel, and the other had stopped in the door, a tommy gun lying carelessly in the hollow of his arm.

  Ruth got in, and the man with the tommy gun gave her a cool, thin-lipped smile that set the blood pounding in Pat’s ears. The gun muzzle between his shoulders made him realize that there was still a chance. They hadn’t killed him yet, and perhaps they wouldn’t. As long as he was alive there was a chance of helping Ruth.

  “You guys got me,” he said suddenly. “Let my wife go, why don’t you? She’ll promise not to talk!”

  “Fat chance!” Raiss sneered. “We’ve had too much experience with you talking. Why didn’t you keep your trap shut? If you hadn’t spouted off to those coppers in Millvale you might have picked up a couple of C’s some night.” He paused, and turned to stare at Ruth. “No, we’ll keep the twist. She’s a good-lookin’ dame, and we boys may have to hide out somewhere. It gets kinda lonesome, you know.”

  Pat’s muscles tightened, but he held himself still, watching for a chance. The car swung off down the paving in the direction from which he had come, and then, wheeling suddenly into a rutted side road. Sitting in the darkness of the car with a gun behind his ear, Pat tried to think, tried to remember.

  THE ROAD THEY were on was one he hadn’t traveled in years, but he did know that it led to the river. The river!

  Suddenly, the car stopped. While the thin, white-faced gunman held a pistol to his head, he was forced from the car. Raiss was waiting for him, and Calva sat in the car watching Ruth like a cat watching a mouse.

  They were on the bridge. Pat remembered the current was strong along here, and the river deep. There were four of them, and they all had guns. He might get one, but that wouldn’t help. They might turn Ruth loose, they might just be talking that way to torture him.

  “Don’t shoot, Cokey,” Calva said suddenly. “Just knock him in the head and let the river do it. There’s a farm up here on the hill.”

  Suddenly, Ruth tried to leap from the car, but Calva caught her by the arm and jerked her back. Pat’s face set grimly, but in that instant Raiss moved forward and brought the gun barrel down across his head in a vicious, sideswiping blow.

  An arrow of pain shot through him, and he stumbled, and almost went down. He lurched toward Raiss, and the gunman hit him again, and again. Then suddenly he felt himself falling, and something else hit him. He toppled off the bridge, and the dark water closed over his head.

  Hours later, it seemed, he opened his eyes. At first he was conscious of nothing but the throbbing pain in his head, the surging waves of pain that went all over him. Then slowly, he began to realize he was cold.

  He struggled, and something tore sharply at his arm. Then he realized where he was and what had happened. He was caught in a barbed-wire fence that extended across the river about three hundred yards below the bridge from which his body had been tumbled.

  Cautiously, he unfastened his clothes from the wire, and clinging to the fence, worked his way to shore. He walked up the bank, and then tumbled and lay flat upon his face in the grass. For a long time he lay still, then he sat up slowly.

  He had no idea of how much time had passed. It was still dark. They had, it seemed, tumbled him off the bridge for dead, not knowing about the fence. It was only a miracle that he hadn’t gone down to stay before the barbs caught his clothing and held him above water.

  Gingerly, he ran his fingers along his scalp. It tingled with the pain of his touch, and he realized it was badly cut. He groped his way to his feet, and started toward the road. He remembered the farm they had said was up above. Almost blind with pain, he staggered along the road, his head throbbing.

  Ahead of him the fence opened, and he could see the black bulk of the farmhouse looming up through the night. Amid the fierce barking of a big shepherd dog, he lurched up to the door and pounded upon it.

  It opened suddenly. Pat Collins looked up and found himself staring into the wide, sleepy eyes of an elderly farmer.

  “Wha—what’s goin’ on here?” the farmer began. “What you mean—!”

  “Listen,” Pat broke in suddenly. “I’m Pat Collins. You call the sheriff at Mercury an’ tell him Raiss an’ Calva waylaid my truck an’ knocked me in the head. Tell him they got my wife. Tell him I think they went to The Cedars.”

  The farmer, wide awake now, caught him by the arm as he lurched against the doorpost, “Come in here, Collins. You’re bad hurt!”

  Almost before he realized it the farmer’s wife had put some coffee before him and he was drinking it in great gulps. It made him feel better.

  “You got a car?” he demanded, as the farmer struggled to raise central. “I want to borrow a car.”

  The farmer’s wife went into the next room and he hurriedly pulled on the dry clothes she had brought him.

  “Please, I need help. You know me, I’m Pat Collins, and I drive for the Mercury Freighting Company, Dave Lyons will back me. If there’s any damage to the car I’ll pay.”

  The farmer turned from the telephone. “Mary, get this young man my pistol and those extra shells, an’ get the car key out of my pants pocket.” He paused, and rang the phone desperately. Then he looked back at Collins. “I know you, son, I seen you down about the markets many a time. We read in the paper today about you witnessin’ that killin’. I reckon they published that story too soon!”

  AS THE FARMER’S car roared to life, Pat could hear the man shouting into the phone, and knew he had reached Mercury and the sheriff. Coming up the hill from the river the memory of Dago John’s old roadhouse at The Cedars had flashed across Pat’s mind. A chance remark from one of the gunmen came to him now as he swung the coupe out on the road, and whirled off at top speed.
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  It had only been a short time since they had slugged him and dropped him in the river. They would be expecting no pursuit, no danger.

  Two miles, three, four, five. Then he swung the car into a dark side road, and stopped. The lights had been turned off minutes before. Carefully, he checked the load in the old six-shooter, and with a dozen shells shaking loose in his pocket, he started down the road.

  His head throbbed painfully, but he felt surprisingly able. It wasn’t for nothing that he had played football, boxed, and wrestled all his life.

  He reached the edge of the fence around the acres where stood the old roadhouse. The place had been deserted since prohibition days. Dago John had made this his headquarters at one time. Carefully, he crawled over the fence.

  Pat Collins was crouched against the wall before he saw the car parked in the garage behind the building. The door had been left open, as though they hadn’t contemplated staying. Through a thin edge of light at the bottom of a window he could see what went on inside.

  Three men, Tony Calva, Cokey Raiss, and the white-faced gunman, were sitting at the table. Ruth was putting food on the table.

  Pat drew back from the window, and suddenly, his ear caught the tiniest sound as a foot scraped on gravel. He whirled just in time to see the dark shadow of a man loom up before him. He lashed out with a vicious right hand that slammed into the man’s body, and he felt it give. Then Pat stepped in, crashing both hands to the chin in a pretty one-two that stretched the surprised gangster flat.

  Quickly, Pat dropped astride him and slugged him on the chin as hard as he could lay them in. Afraid the sound had attracted attention, he crawled to his feet, scooping the gunman’s automatic as he got up. He opened the door.

  “Come on in, Red,” the gunman said, without looking up, but Pat fired as he spoke, and the white-faced gangster froze in his chair.

  With an oath, Calva dropped to the floor, shooting as he fell. A bullet ripped through Pat’s shirt, and another snapped against the wall behind his head and whined away across the room. Pat started across the room. Suddenly he was mad, mad clear through. Both guns were spouting fire, and he could see Raiss was on his feet, shooting back.