The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four

by Louis L'Amour

  Ponga Jim went out the window to the ledge, then dropped to the roof of the shed below it, and then into the street. A German rushed at him. They grappled for an instant, then Jim broke free and punched him solidly in the jaw.

  Even as the man dropped, Jim jerked open a door and walked into a cantina. He walked through to the next street, went outside, dodged through the light traffic, and stepped into the car in front of his own hotel. It was a large, powerful car from the Castillo Norden.

  The man on guard at the door of the hotel wheeled as the motor roared into life. Then as the guard realized what was happening, he raised his gun and took careful aim. Ponga Jim was dead in his sights, and for an instant, Mayo looked death in the face.

  From across the street there was a great coughing gunshot. The soldier folded, his rifle going off harmlessly into the air. Even as Ponga Jim let the clutch out, he saw Armando Fontes, his huge pistol dangling in his fingers, leaning against the corner of the building across from the hotel.

  The big car swung into a curve, and Jim stepped down on the accelerator and opened her up. Whatever else she had, the car had power. He headed out the road toward Castillo Norden, and when the car hit the highway it was doing ninety.

  Norden’s road was guarded. That was all right with Mayo. He roared past the first guard station with the motor wide open, and saw two men waving wildly as he went through.

  Peligro had told him just where the amphibian was. It was gassed up and kept ready for instant flight. If he could get to it, and away, things would start to look up.

  The big car whirled down the private road to the landing field. Dust clouds billowed out behind. Yet even as he swung onto the field, he saw Don Pedro, Von Hardt, Valdes, and Busch starting for the amphibian, whose propeller was turning lazily.

  Crouching behind the wheel, Ponga Jim headed straight for them. They took one look and dived for shelter. He let the car shoot past the flying boat, then spun the wheel and turned it on a dime. For a split second he thought the big car would roll over, but it righted itself and he pointed it at the nearest transport in the row.

  Jamming down the accelerator then shifting into neutral, Ponga Jim leaped from the running board. He landed hard, and scrambled to his feet, spitting dust. Beyond the amphibian he heard a tremendous crash as the speeding car smashed into the plane. Then there was an explosion, and both were in flames.

  Mayo ran to the amphibian and crawled inside. The German pilot looked up. Mayo pulled his .45 and stuck it in the man’s face. He herded the German out the hatch. An instant later he had it rolling down the runway. He eased back on the stick and the ship took off. It cleared the low hedge easily and mounted into the sky.

  He climbed, cleared his guns with a burst, then swung the ship around. She was specially built, faster and more maneuverable than the basic model. He went back over the field, the four wing guns blazing. He saw men lift their rifles, then tumble into the dust. One man rushed for a .50-caliber machine gun on a hangar roof, but a burst of fire caught him and threw him bodily to the ground below. Ponga Jim drew the stick back and climbed steadily away from the Castillo Norden. One glance back showed the flames still roaring. Then he headed for the Acaraú River, and the Semiramis.

  HIS HEAD WAS ACHING fearfully. His swollen face still throbbed. In his dive from the car he had injured one leg, not badly, but enough for it to be painful. He flew steadily toward the river, remembering its position on the chart. It was, he remembered now, one of the few rivers along this section of the coast that could be entered by a ship of any size.

  What would happen now, he could not guess. Juan Peligro and Armando Fontes were free, so far as he knew. If they could remain free they would be fortunate. What had been done was enough to force Don Pedro to move. The shooting in Fortaleza and the burning of the planes would be sure to excite comment in regions beyond Norden’s control. Peligro, too, would be in touch with his government, and possibly with Vargas.

  If Don Pedro hoped to win he must act at once. There was no chance for delay, no time for hesitation. His power had been flouted. The people of Fortaleza would know that there was opposition. Such petty officials as Duro would begin to shake in their boots. Such men always followed the winning side, and now there could be doubt.

  Below he saw the winding thread of the Acaraú, and he circled the plane above the Semiramis. Then he made a shallow dive and waggled his wings. It was his old signal to his crew all was well. If any were on deck, they would be expecting him.

  Ponga Jim had lost his own cap, so now he picked up a beautiful Panama that had been left in the cabin of his plane. From his pocket he took his gun and reloaded it. Then he took another from a locker in the plane, slipping it into his waistband.

  Finally, he glided down to a landing, let the amphibian fishtail into the wind, and lay just a few yards from the Semiramis’s beam. After anchoring the plane, he stood up and straightened his clothes. A boat was coming toward him. Mayo now planned to try a colossal bluff, counting on the fact that no one aboard would know him but his own men.

  As the boat drew alongside, he stepped in. Holding out his arm, hand open, he snapped a greeting.

  “Heil Hitler!” he said.

  The man in the launch returned the salute clumsily.

  “To the Semiramis!” Mayo barked. “A message from Don Pedro.”

  Expecting nothing else, the man turned the launch and ran over to the accommodation ladder. Ponga Jim got up, pulled down the brim of his Panama, and eased his automatic in its shoulder holster. Then he went up the ladder.

  Norden’s captain, a wide-faced mestizo, was at the gangway with another man. Beyond them, working over some running gear, was Big London. The surprised Negro turned abruptly away from Jim, then stepped around the corner of the hatch where he could watch without seeming to notice. But Mayo had no time to waste.

  As the captain opened his mouth to speak, Ponga Jim thrust the automatic into his stomach.

  “Manos arriba!” he snapped.

  The man gulped and lifted his hands, as did the man beside him. Ponga Jim spoke no Portuguese, but Spanish was close enough. Jim drew their guns and tossed them to London.

  “Get the crew out,” he said.

  In a matter of minutes, the crew was on deck…the ship taken back before the guards realized just what was happening. The surprise was complete.

  PONGA JIM GRABBED BROPHY. “Get under way,” he said quickly. “I want you to run up to Fortaleza. There are two ships there, the Nissengate and the Chittagong. Both are loaded with munitions. Sink them.”

  Slug Brophy jerked a thumb at the armed freighter nearby. “What about him?”

  “Leave him to me,” Mayo said grimly. “Get four bombs aboard the amphibian. They won’t notice because this ship lies between.”

  Brophy snapped into action, and Jim noticed the guns being cleared for trouble. Within twenty minutes after he landed, he was taking off. He climbed to a thousand feet, swung around, and started back for the armed freighter.

  Even as he swung back he could see the Semiramis pulling up to her anchor. The captain of the armed freighter was shouting something at the Semiramis when Ponga Jim released his first bomb.

  Ponga Jim had come in slowly, taking his time, and the crew of the ship were expecting nothing. The bomb hit the starboard bridge, glanced off, and struck the deck. It exploded with a terrific concussion.

  Jim swung back over again, ignoring the men trying to man an AA gun, and let go with another. That bomb hit the water within a foot of the ship and the explosion blazed a fountain of water high into the air. The freighter heeled over violently, and Ponga Jim could see flames roaring in the ’tween decks through the gaping hole torn in her deck and hull by the first explosion.

  He banked steeply and soared off over the hills, heading to Natal. As he left he saw the Semiramis open fire on the crippled freighter with her 5.9-inch guns.

  Quartered at Natal there were American troops. Also, there would be, he hoped, some Varg
as officials who were loyal. Despite himself, he was worried. Don Pedro Norden was no fool. He was an utterly unscrupulous and ruthless man who knew how and when to act. That Ponga Jim had won this last move was due largely to the daring of his performance and the fact that Don Pedro underrated him.

  CHAPTER V

  It was dark when he flew back to Fortaleza. Earlier, he had located a small lake in an uninhabited region. It was set among some wooded sand dunes, and as he glided in he could see no signs of life. He paddled ashore in his rubber boat, and concealed it in some thick brush, then he started walking toward the city.

  Flying up, he had seen no sign of the Semiramis, and he was worried. He had swung wide to get a glimpse of the field at Norden’s estate; it was empty. The planes had gone. Even the signs of the fire had been eradicated. All that had him worried, too; it would have been more to his liking for there to have been government officials circulating, asking difficult questions…forcing Don Pedro to spend time and energy in a cover-up.

  The streets of Fortaleza were quiet, too quiet. A few men walked here and there about their business. A few straggled into the theaters. A group of hard-faced men stood on a corner, talking in low voices. As he passed, Ponga Jim saw them turn to look. The Panama was pulled low, and his face showed but little in the vague light.

  He walked on. There were other clusters of men. These groups stood in strategic positions, and he saw the city was dominated by them. Several planes flew over the town, headed inland. A woman passed him, her face stiff with fear, and hurried down a side street.

  “You must get off the streets, amigo,” a low voice whispered. “They mean to kill you on sight.”

  Mayo turned to find Peligro at his elbow.

  “What of you, chiquito?” he said grinning. “From what I heard you aren’t exactly welcomed around here yourself.”

  Juan Peligro shrugged. “I fear you are right, señor. They do not appreciate my talents. Don Pedro has practically occupied Fortaleza. The planes are flown inland.”

  “To Teresina and his mines and plantations, I’ll bet. He has bases there for them.” Jim looked around. “What will happen now?”

  “I don’t know,” Peligro shrugged. “At midnight the word is to go out. The killings will start, there will be risings all over Brazil. In Colombia, too. There is to be peace with the Axis and war with the Allies.”

  Ponga Jim looked at him. “From where will they send the message? Here? Or from Castillo Norden?”

  “From the Castillo. I heard—only now—that Norden is soon to leave. That is to be the signal. He himself, you see, plans to be unaware of the murdering until it is completed. If it is successful then he will make a speech, and later will give medals and jobs to the murderers.”

  Up the street there was a crash of glass and a shout of fury. The bunch nearest Jim started for a store, and one man put his shoulder against the door. It burst open, and the thugs from the street corner dragged a shouting shopkeeper into the street. One struck him, another kicked him.

  “We might as well start here,” Ponga Jim said grimly. He turned on his heel and walked up behind the nearest troublemaker. Mayo grabbed him by the collar and hurled him into the street. From a brown shirt nearby came a shout of rage. The other men whirled about. Ponga Jim’s first punch knocked a man rolling. Grabbing a stick from another, he laid about him furiously. Another man tumbled, and then someone fired. Instantly, Jim went for his gun. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he fired coolly and steadily. Two men dropped, and another staggered, then ran off.

  Suddenly at the corner, a heavy gun boomed. Glancing over, Mayo saw Armando Fontes standing in the street with his big pistol. Juan Peligro had gone into action, too, and cheered by their support, shopkeepers and other Vargas sympathizers rushed into the streets with weapons.

  Then something happened that stopped them all, both sides, dead in their tracks.

  A dull boom sounded from the east. Next the scream of a shell. As one man, the people stopped fighting and stared toward the harbor. The Semiramis steamed in, swung broadside, and then her 5.9s began to fire.

  For the first time in the three years he had owned her, and in all the actions she had come through, Ponga Jim Mayo could stand on the sidelines and watch his ship in action. Only a dark shadow on the water now, lighted by constant blasts of gunfire, but he knew every line of her, every spot of rust, every patch of red lead.

  Shells screamed overhead, blasting the hangars of the airfield into flaming ruins and turning level runways into pitted, pockmarked uselessness. Then the fire ceased, and when it opened again, the guns were fired on the Nissengate.

  It was point-blank range. Jim could almost hear Gunner Millan’s crisp orders, could see the powerful muscles of Big London and Lyssy, passing shells to the crew.

  A shell exploded amidships. Another blasted the stack into a canted, swaying menace, hanging only by its stays. The after wheelhouse vanished in the crimson blare of an explosion, and then a shot pierced the hull and exploded.

  All sound was lost in a tremendous blast as though someone had suddenly exploded a balloon that was miles in diameter. The burst of air and the concussion left them deaf and silent amid crashing glass of broken windows in the town. They stared at each other, mouths open, and eyes goggled at the tremendous pillar of flame that shot suddenly skyward.

  People began to run. Nordenistas, Falangists, and the supporters of Vargas all in one mass, they ran.

  Peligro grabbed Ponga Jim’s arm, but Jim was waiting, his eyes bright. The Semiramis swung a little, and the 5.9s covered the Chittagong. The latter vessel was armed, and her own guns began to roar, but the crews kept overshooting badly.

  A shell from the Semiramis landed on the poop of the Chittagong and exploded. Then more guns began to hammer, and Jim could see, even at that distance, the black figures of men as they dove overboard from the Chittagong. Three were fighting desperately to launch a boat. Then the ship caught fire.

  Jim wheeled, and with Juan Peligro beside him, started on a run for the edge of town. Only a couple of hundred yards, and then Armando Fontes came alongside in his panting Model A. They scrambled in, and following Jim’s directions they started over the sand hills toward the amphibian.

  They left the car in the brush and walked down to the water, and Jim got the rubber boat from the brush. They had reached the plane and Mayo was getting in when he saw a flicker of movement.

  A boat had appeared at the tail of the ship, and he saw himself staring into three submachine guns. He thought, for one breathless instant, of risking a dive into the lake, then gave up. Even if he succeeded, Fontes and Peligro would be shot down like sheep.

  “Get in.” It was Hugo Busch. “Get in the plane.”

  Mayo reluctantly stepped aboard. Von Hardt was sitting there, gun in hand.

  When the plane was in the air, Busch came back to where they were sitting. He grinned widely as he sat down nearby.

  “You’ve been putting on a show, Mayo,” he said, “and Norden is quite unhappy. What I’d have done to you would be nothing to what you’ll get now.”

  Busch turned his head to stare at Fontes. “Where did you pick this up?” he said. “He looks like somebody you found in a Hollywood comedy.”

  Fontes said nothing. But he stared at Busch, his eyes sullen. Then coolly, he rolled his quid and spat. The tobacco juice splashed on the German’s chin and shirt collar, and Busch went white with fury.

  With a lunge, the German grabbed Fontes by the throat, but bound as he was, the Brazilian was powerless to defend himself.

  “Hugo!” Von Hardt’s voice cracked like a bullwhip. “None of that.”

  Busch subsided, his face livid. Armando Fontes rolled himself into a sitting position and stared at Busch, still sullen and unperturbed.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, still bound, the three were taken from the plane to the library of Castillo Norden. Don Pedro and Carisa Montoya sat waiting for them, Don Pedro staring with cruel eyes. Nearby, Carisa sat, mo
re beautiful than ever.

  Norden studied the three, then looked up.

  “Leave them, Herr Busch,” he said sharply. “Tell Enrico to get the radio warmed up. It is almost time.”

  Don Pedro got up. Despite himself, he was alive with anticipation and could not refrain from showing it. He looked at Mayo.

  “So? You thought to interfere? Well, you have courage, even if you have no brains. You have changed my plans, Captain Mayo. But for the better. I have decided not to wait. The zero hour was to have been three days from now. But this interference has decided me. The time is now.” Don Pedro Norden shoved his hands down his coat pockets, and his hard eyes gleamed with triumph. “In just fifteen minutes the word goes out. The hour to strike has come.”

  Fifteen minutes!

  Then it was too late! All he had planned, his trip to Natal, everything was in vain. They could do nothing to warn the officials now. Brazil would be caught flat-footed. There was, nowhere, any knowledge of such a power as Norden had welded together. Nowhere but in Berlin and Tokyo.

  Shoved down into chairs, Mayo and his two companions were bound hand and foot. Don Pedro seemed to have forgotten them. He pressed a button and several men came in. To each he handed a brief, typewritten sheet. His orders rapped out thick and fast.

  Norden had planned well, the plan was set to function, and each man was dropping into his position to await the final order.

  Ponga Jim glanced at Peligro. The Colombian was perspiring, his face a deathly pallor. Armando Fontes, his eyes narrow, was staring at Norden.

  Carisa Montoya, her face stiff, watched what was happening. At Natal, Major Palmer was ready with his bombers and fighters, but he would be too late, and once the plan was under way his force would be too small.

  The plan was simple, concise, beautifully organized. The risings in Cananea, Registro, and other Japanese-inhabited localities would make each a central headquarters for a series of forces striking out into loyal territory. Rio Grande do Sul, with its large German population, would fall into the conspirators’ hands like a ripe plum. With submarines to halt naval interferences, rapid moves could in a few hours have much of Brazil in the hands of Don Pedro; the entire South American situation would be changed, forever.