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

by Louis L'Amour

  She stiffened. “Who…murdered?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Somebody played rough around here. Somebody who uses jujitsu and a knife. They got the second and third mates.”

  “Not Richards? Aaron isn’t killed?” Her eyes were wide.

  Turk frowned. “I don’t know your pal Richards. I only know that you’ve got two less mates than you had, and I want to know why. I also want to know who you are, what this ship is doing here, and where the skipper is.”

  She stared at him suspiciously, making no move to put the gun down.

  “It’s all right,” he said, exasperated. “I’m an American. I’ve been flying coast patrol for the Russians because of the war.”

  She hesitated, then decided to believe him. “This is the Welleston, out of Boston. My father, Mace Reardon, was in command. We were bound for Vladivostok with aviation fuel, machine oil, and M-3 tanks when Pearl Harbor was bombed. We had trouble with our radio, and the war had been going on for several days before we heard of it. Dad took the ship north around Sakhalin Island, hoping to slip down the Siberian coast to Vladivostok.

  “When we got this far, Aaron—I mean Mr. Richards, the mate—suggested we tie up here and communicate with Vladivostok to get an escort through the most dangerous water.”

  Madden nodded. “Not a bad idea. Your Mr. Richards was smart. But how were you to communicate with them? Your radio would warn the Japs, and this is an American ship.”

  “We didn’t use the radio. Aaron told Sparks to set out overland for Sidatun.”

  “For where?” Turk’s eyes narrowed.

  “Sidatun. It’s several miles back from the coast. Sparks was good on skis, so he went.”

  “And Richards sent him?” Turk was beginning to understand…or suspect. “Where’s Richards now?”

  “I don’t know.” The girl was frankly puzzled. “Mutiny broke out, just after Sparks left. My father was…” She hesitated, and for the first time her poise wavered. “…killed. Then Aaron told me to stay inside and not to let anyone in but him.”

  A breath of cold air on the back of his neck warned Turk. He turned, letting his gun slide into his hand with that smooth efficiency that only comes from long familiarity and practice. He was just a little too fast for the tall, handsome man who stood in the doorway. “Hold it, buddy,” Turk said softly. “I never like to kill people I haven’t met socially.”

  “Aaron!” the girl cried out sharply. “I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?”

  Richards ignored her question, his eyes intent, staring at Turk. He was a bigger man than Turk, which meant that he was well over six feet and weighed more than Madden’s compact one eighty.

  “Who is this man?” Richards asked coolly.

  “The name is Madden,” Turk replied, studying the man keenly. “I’m an American. I run a commercial airline in the East Indies. Made a long flight up to Shanghai with a special passenger, and then went on patrol for the Soviet Army of the Far East. Come in and close that door.”

  Richards complied, moving warily and keeping his hands in sight. He didn’t do anything suspicious, but something told Turk he was to be carefully watched.

  Richards faced him again. “I’m afraid, Tony,” he said to the girl, “that anything this man has told you is a lie. He cannot be on patrol. No plane could possibly land in this weather.”

  “I land planes in all kinds of weather,” Turk said calmly, “and what you think or do not think does not happen to matter in the least. I am an officer of the Soviet government at the moment, and the cargo of this ship is the property of that government. The ship is flying the American flag, and I am a citizen of the United States. I want to know exactly what has happened on this boat.”

  “There was a mutiny,” Richards said coldly, “a very minor one. I handled it. Everything is now under control. We need no help.”

  The man was listening for something. Turk remembered the door behind him was locked, the ports dogged down. Yet he felt an acute sense of impending danger.

  “I wonder if the second and third mates thought it was minor?” Turk demanded. “Who murdered them? Did you?”

  Richards stiffened, and his eyes widened just a little, then turned cold and dangerous. “I think we might ask the crew about that, or you. You might be a Jap agent.”

  Turk laughed. “Yeah, I’d bet a lot of dough one of us is, and it isn’t me. The second mate wasn’t murdered by a stranger or by a crew in mutiny. He was murdered by someone he knew and trusted.”

  “How do you know that?” Tony asked sharply.

  “Because he was stabbed in the back while eating by someone he knew was behind him. The third mate was killed by someone with a knowledge of jujitsu. But he was expecting trouble.”

  “Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Richards sneered, his eyes hard, “you think you have it all figured out, don’t you? Trying to pin it all on me? Well, I think you’re a renegade, that you haven’t any plane, and have no connection with any government whatsoever.”

  Tony Reardon was looking at Turk, her eyes cold. “Maybe you’d better put up that gun and leave,” she said. “Whatever you came here for won’t work. I know Mr. Richards, and now that my father is dead, he is in command. Your efforts to prejudice me against him won’t do. I’ve known him for over a year, and he is not only the captain now, but my fiancé.”

  Turk grinned. “Which apparently makes him the head man around here. All right, darling, suppose you ask him why he sent Sparks out to die.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “You said he sent him to Sidatun to communicate with the Soviet officials. Sidatun, baby, is not several miles away, but several hundred, and across a range of mountains. In this weather even a man who knows the country couldn’t make it.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Tony said desperately.

  Turk was watching Richards. The mate was half crouched, his eyes malevolent. Madden slipped his hand inside his coat and tossed a roll on the table. “Look at that map, honey.”

  There was a sudden step on the deck outside, and a sound of footsteps on the ladder. Triumphant light leaped into Richards’s eyes at the sound, but Turk sprang for the door. Richards leaped to intercept him, swinging even as he sprang. Turk was lunging right into the path of the blow, and there was no way to avoid it. It struck him a smashing wallop on the chin and knocked him staggering into the wall. Even as he fell back, Richards steadied himself and lifted his gun.

  Off balance and helpless, Turk was cold meat, when Tony caught Richards’s arm, jerking it aside. The shot smashed a picture an inch over Turk’s head.

  Before the mate could free his gun hand, Turk sprang close and, grabbing him by the collar, literally jerked him from his feet, dragging him to the door. Throwing it open, Turk dumped Richards out at the feet of three startled Japanese sailors.

  Madden drew back swiftly and slammed the door, turning the key in the lock. Tony Reardon’s face was deathly pale. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happening? I don’t understand!”

  A shout of anger came from outside, and then a pounding on the door. It was a steel door, and Turk was unworried.

  Her face was strained and Turk could see she was on the verge of hysteria. She had kept her father’s death bottled up inside her, and now this.

  “Hold it, kid,” Turk said kindly. “You sit down and take it easy. We’ll get out of this. The way I figure it, this Richards has sold out to someone. Now the Japs have arrived. Richards must have got in touch with them somehow.”

  He checked his gun. Without doubt they would move the ship at once. Every minute they stayed was dangerous. And that meant that unless he could do something promptly, they would be out on the Sea of Japan headed for a prison camp or death.

  Turk crossed the room in a stride and peered out the port. A Jap seaman was opening the valves to get steam into the winch, another had put down his rifle and was clearing a line that had become fouled with some tackle. They would be casting off in
a matter of minutes.

  Tony came up to him. Her eyes were wide, her face tear-stained, but she was composed again. He looked down at her. “You’ve got nerve, kid,” he said, “and that’s what it’s going to take.”

  “What are we to do now?” she asked simply.

  “We’ve got to get out of here and away,” he said, “an’ there’s a good chance we’ll get killed trying. They can’t release that line up there, an’ don’t dare cast off aft until they do, else they’ll have the ship broadside to the current, an’ probably run her aground.

  “They will be getting up more steam now. When they do, the chances are someone will slip ashore an’ cut the line. Then, like it or not, we’ll be headed for Japan.”

  Turk hesitated. “I’m going to open that door and shoot the guard. It doesn’t seem like there’s many of them. Then we’ll get down that ladder as fast as we can. The snow will help some. They can’t see ten feet beyond the bow. It will be the last thing they expect, so we got a chance.”

  Tony picked up her gun, her chin firm. “Okay, honey,” he said, “open the door an’ follow me. We’re blasting out of here.”

  Luck was with them. The guard stood by the rail, and even as he turned, Madden slashed him on the temple with the .45. They were halfway to the ladder before they were seen. A Japanese sailor patrolling the bridge let out a shout of alarm and threw up his rifle. Turk spun on his heel and snapped a quick shot at the man. It lifted the cap from the man’s head, and he dropped out of sight behind the bulwark.

  A shot glanced from the deck right ahead of them, and then Tony was running down the icy ladder. Turk turned coolly at the head of the ladder and laced the deck with a pattern of fire. Then he half ran, half slid, down the ladder. He stopped dead still and slid another clip into his automatic before he moved, then ran close alongside the hull.

  Glancing back, he saw a sailor leaning out from the ship to level a rifle, and Turk fired. The man’s face blossomed with crimson and he lost his hold, sliding through the rail to fall into the opening between the ship and the ledge.

  Then, from the edge of the woods, a barrage of fire opened up, sweeping the ship’s rail and bridge with a stream of bullets. Running, gasping for breath, the two plunged through the last of the snow and stumbled into the shelter of the forest.

  Diakov met them on the edge of the woods, his face beaming, the CZ light machine gun cradled in his arms. “Skis here,” he said. “We better leave quick.”

  “What about her?” Turk protested. “She—”

  “Skis for her, too.” The Cossack winked broadly. “I find a Jap out here on skis. I brought them along…a rifle, too.”

  Turk glanced quickly at the trail to the plane. Obviously, the Russian had been here some time, for his footprints were covered over with new snow. He turned at right angles to the river and started off through the timber. “Wrong way,” Diakov protested.

  “We’d get there just a few minutes ahead of their pursuit,” Turk said, “and not time enough to warm up the plane and take off. No, we’ve got to lead them back in the hills.”

  Diakov’s eyes lighted. “In the Sihoti Alins? I hope they all follow us, comrade. We will show them something, no?”

  In silence the three struck out through the timber. Behind them they knew pursuit would be organized. The Japanese dared not leave when there was a chance that other planes would catch them before they were far out at sea.

  Turk said nothing as he followed Diakov through the timber. The big Cossack was a marvel on skis, and it took only a few minutes for Turk to see that Tony Reardon was able to muddle along.

  “What kind of shape are you in?” he asked her.

  She smiled for the first time. “I’ll get the hang of it. I used to do this when I was a kid in upstate New York. Don’t worry about me.”

  After that it was grim business. There was no chance of eluding their pursuers, but they had a lead that they increased after a few miles. Diakov didn’t look for easy going, and as often as possible he led them across bare, icy spots where the skis left no trail.

  After a while Turk stopped. “You go ahead,” he said to them. “I’m going to give these boys something to worry about.”

  The two headed away. He and Diakov in a murmured conversation had settled on a lonely peak for a rendezvous, deciding shortly after their start that would be their destination.

  Turk took a limb from a tree and brushed the trail. The fast-falling snow would fill in the gaps. Then he walked back over a bare spot, carrying his skis. Down below, a half mile behind, he saw a knot of men, several others scattered out behind.

  He rested the captured rifle on a branch and steadied it against his cheek. Allowing for the cold, he took careful aim, trying the rifle from several positions. He watched them come closer, then steadied the rifle and fired.

  The group split like magic, and in an instant the trail was emptied of all but one man. He got up and, carrying one ski, hobbled into the brush. Taking his time, Turk fired three times, moving himself. Then slipping on his skis, he started out at a fast clip.

  Shooting through an opening in the trees, he drove himself down a long slope in long, swift strides, took a quick turn around the bole of a huge tree, and started up a long slope through the brush, moving at an angle. Far below a shot rang out, and he knew he had been sighted, but he did not stop. Another shot, and then he stopped.

  Taking a quick glance back, he threw up his rifle and fired. One of the men sprang aside.

  “Stung him!” Turk muttered. “Well, that’ll keep ’em worried.”

  He had gone no more than two miles before he stopped suddenly. Above him, on the steep side hill above the vague trail he was following, a huge boulder was poised. Behind it and on up the mountain were several tree trunks, more rock, and the makings of a small slide. He halted, studying the situation thoughtfully. There was a loose collection of rocks under the boulder, but apparently one stone held the bigger boulder in place. Using a broken limb, he cleared out some of the dirt and loose stuff from underneath and experimentally rocked the boulder back and forth.

  Smiling, he continued on. Occasionally he glanced back, but kept to the trail, the boulder in sight. Twice he sighted his rifle over his back trail, and finally he halted.

  Seating himself on a rock, he waited. From time to time he stood up and moved around to keep warm. Then he saw them coming. Slowly, the men began to wind along the trail below the boulder. Raising his rifle, he sighted carefully, took a long breath, and let a little out of his lungs. Then holding the rifle loosely, he squeezed the trigger.

  He fired not at the men themselves, but at the spot where the rock was holding the slide suspended above the trail. Nothing happened. He shifted his position a little and fired again. Immediately there was a terrific roar, and he saw the slide wipe a black path across the mountainside.

  When he moved on again, it was with the knowledge that two fewer men followed him.

  It was dark when Turk reached the hollow at the base of the peak. The spot was secluded, and the path he had taken brought him there only a few minutes after Diakov and Tony arrived. The Cossack was cutting dry wood from the underside of a fallen log to build a fire. When it was burning, they sat around talking in low tones. There was small chance of pursuit until daybreak, which was hours away. Traveling even in the day was not easy. At night, with boulders, ice slides, and heavy snow laced with fallen trunks, it would be infinitely more dangerous.

  Diakov brewed tea over the fire, and after they had finished a bar of chocolate that Turk shared among them, Turk cleared a wider place in the snow and shifted the fire. Then he spread dry leaves from the bottom of a snow-covered pile over the warm ground where the fire had been. Tony could hardly keep her eyes open, and an instant after she touched the ground, she slept. Diakov and Turk shared watches.

  IT WAS JUST turning gray when Turk awakened. Diakov was putting fuel on the fire. “I went back to look,” he said softly. “They are three miles back, but a mile
and a half east of us. They have lost our trail and talk of returning.”

  Turk scowled. “That means we must make the plane today. The ship won’t leave until these fellows return.”

  Turk awakened Tony and they hastily slipped on their skis and hit the trail. It was all downhill now. They had reached a high elevation and the trees had thinned out to a few fir, some Siberian larch, and spruce. The lower reaches along the valleys were covered with dense forest with few trails. Giant poplars reached toward the sky, some of them hundreds of years old. Sliding in among the trees, Turk led the way at a rapid pace. There was no time now for delay. Whatever was to be done must be done at once.

  There was a chance that, casting about, the Japanese would find their trail, but the risk had to be taken. The air was still and very cold, but the brisk movement kept them warm. Several times Turk stopped to study the back trail, but they moved so rapidly that almost before they realized it, they shot out of the woods beside the river.

  The Grumman was lying quietly in the backwater, her wings heavy with snow. Hastily, while Diakov and Tony brushed the snow away, Turk worked over the twin motors. After a few choking tries, they kicked off, roaring into life with a thunder that awakened the still cold of the taiga.

  Tony got into the cabin, and then Diakov cast off. Instantly, gambling against the Japanese hearing his signals, Turk began to call the landing field at Khabarovsk. He glanced at his watch. Murzin would be on now. He sent his call out again.

  “Madden, Ussuri Coast Patrol, calling Khabarovsk. Coast Patrol calling Khabarovsk.”

  After a minute he heard Murzin. “Come in, Madden. Where you been, comrade?”

  “SS Welleston, bound for Vladivostok, tied up in river mouth south of Nahtohu River. Mutiny aboard. Situation serious. Come loaded for bear.”

  “Stand by, Coast Patrol.”

  Turk Madden swung the Grumman around and headed for the shore. He was at home now. In the air, flying his specially built amphibian, he was always at home. For what she was, the ship was fast and maneuverable. He saw the gray line of the sea and then he was over it. Glancing down, he saw the freighter. There was no fog now, and he could see the line of men coming wearily through the trees from their fruitless chase.