“No use!” Shan Bao protested. “They gone maybe two hours!”
Turk Madden’s face was cold and ugly. Despite Shan’s protest, he turned and, helped by Young and Ryan, made a careful survey of all the ruined buildings. There was no sign of life, nor could any tracks be found on the pavement or hard ground.
He had failed thus far to free Bob Doone. The steel box was still in the hands of the Ngoloks, or hidden somewhere. And now Raemy had been taken from him.
When they returned from their trek, Madden checked his watch. An hour to go before they took off. Ryan dug into the food and got out some crackers and cheese while Shan made coffee. In silence, the four men ate.
Turk got up finally and walked outside. He looked big and grim in his worn leather jacket, his head bared to the chill wind, his eyes hard as they studied the gray, barren sky. He turned and came back in, checking his .45 grimly.
“Warm her up, Shan, we’ll start now!” He looked around again, then glanced at Young. “Better have a look outside. Watch until I call you.”
Minutes later he called Young, then followed Ryan into the ship, they taxied out on the lake, and he revved her up and then started her down the dark water. The motors roared beautifully, and he gave her plenty of time for the air was cold and light. As he eased back on the stick she lifted gently, slapped a wave, and lifted toward the rocky crest of one of the hills skirting the lake.
Turk shot straight away from the lake, climbing steadily. At five thousand he swung in a wide curve and headed back. Then he lifted higher, and higher. Far below and off to his left he could see a tip of the green valley. Young waved him further to the right and he banked the ship and headed for a tall, ice-capped spire of black rock almost due west.
Suddenly, he saw the field. It was on a small plateau, and at one end there was a stone hangar and a smaller building nearby. As he pushed forward on the stick and shot down toward the field he saw men burst from the smaller building and one of them rushed toward the hangar, others lifted rifles and although they must have been firing, he heard no sound of the shooting.
The man running toward the hangar suddenly stumbled and fell headlong and lay there, a dark spot on the pavement near his head. Then Turk opened up and the harsh yammer of his own guns blotted out sound and he saw men fold and go down as if blown by a powerful wind.
He dove toward the smaller building and the men with rifles and saw men scatter in every direction, and then he was over the building and zooming up to swing back over the field. Men had scattered into the brush, but he came down fast and let go with another burst at the smaller building.
When he came around for another pass he saw men running out on the plateau waving their arms at him. He skimmed by overhead, then swung around and came in for a landing.
AS HE GOT OUT, he saw men pouring into the smaller building and coming out with rifles. Scotty met him, a broad grin on his face. “We got nine of them, all told. One man got away, but several of ours are after him.”
“How about weapons?” Turk demanded quickly.
Young had started on a trot for the hangar.
“There’s twelve more rifles,” Scotty said, “as nearly as we could figure. We’ll know in a minute.”
Turk walked toward the hangar after Young. In a few minutes they had the news. Of the thirty men they had in all, aside from his own crew, sixteen of them now had rifles and eight more had pistols. The others had found old iron swords and one a pike.
Turk walked into the hangar, and Young was standing there looking at the ship. Young nodded at it. “Ever see anything like that?” he demanded.
“Yeah,” Turk walked around it thoughtfully. “Looks like an improved version of a Russian ship they had in Spain during the Civil War. Some of the Russians who fought with the Loyalists flew them.”
Scotty came in with the escaped prisoner. “What happens now?” Scotty demanded.
“We get out of here,” Turk said, “and quick. We’ve got a lot to do. At least, Ryan and I have. And we’re taking this ship!”
Young’s brow furrowed. “I fly a little, but I never tackled anything that looked that hot!”
Madden shrugged. “I’ll fly it. Shan Bao knows my ship. You can go back to the lake with him. He could take four or five of you.”
“We’ll march it,” Scotty said, “all of us!” He grinned at Turk. “We might run into a bunch of those ’Loks, and the boys are spoilin’ for a fight!”
Turk checked the ship himself. There was plenty of gas, and he found a buried tank near the hangar that was almost full. He yelled at Shan, and the Manchu refueled the Grumman.
When they had gone, he walked outside. The ship had been wheeled out before they left, and he had taken a few minutes to look around. He hadn’t wanted to tell them, but he knew what he was going to do. He was going hunting for that other pursuit ship. From what he knew of the fighter he had, he knew she was a plenty hot ship. Also, he was going to teach them a lesson or two. They had it coming.
He walked outside and got into the fighter. He warmed her up. She was a two-motored job, bearing a resemblance to the Russian pursuits he had seen in Spain. What did they call them? He scowled, trying to remember. Masca—Mosca, something like that.
The motors purred evenly and smoothly. Carefully, he opened her up a little, and the ship trembled with the burst of added power. Turk passed his tongue over his lips. “Here goes everything!” he said softly, and, his eyes widened a little, he started the ship down the plateau.
It gathered speed and he opened the throttle wider. The black cliffs faded in a roar of thundering speed. He felt the lift of the ship as it reached for the air and he came back on the stick and felt the earth fall away beneath him. He eased back further, and the little fighter began to climb.
His eyes were bright. “Whoever built this baby,” he said, “knew what he was doing.”
Roaring with power the ship shot skyward like an angry hawk, and deftly he put her through her paces. She had it—speed, power, maneuverability. He swung her around, and headed between two gigantic peaks and darted through to see the green valley far, far below him, and even as he glimpsed it, he saw the Grumman far away to the east and north, and sweeping down toward it was the other pursuit ship!
Turk banked his fighter steeply and whipped around to dart after the other ship like a sparrow hawk after a hen! His twin motors roaring, his heart singing with the lust for battle, he cleared his guns with a burst and then swept down on the other fighter.
It was no P-40 or anything like it, but almost a duplicate of his own ship, and some sixth sense must have warned the pilot, for he suddenly pulled up sharply and swung around, wondering at the actions of his companion fighter. Turk cured him of his wonder in a quick burst as the fighter swung past his guns. It was ineffective, to all appearances, except to warn the enemy fighter that he was in for trouble.
The other ship made a flat turn and started for him, but flying fighters was an old story to Turk Madden. He had flown almost every kind of ship in the air. Yet the enemy pilot had been trained well, and he handled his ship like it was part of him.
“Okay, bud,” Turk said, “you want to play!” He gave the ship everything she had and started for the other fighter, head on. For what seemed minutes they rushed down at each other, yet Turk knew it was only a fleeting instant, then, suddenly, the other pilot broke and hauled back on the stick. The nose of the plane went up, and he went up and over in a wild, desperate effort to escape what seemed fiery and certain death in a head-on collision. And in the fleeting instant when his underside was exposed, Madden poured a darting stream of fire into the other ship!
He banked steeply and swung away, then circled and started back, but the enemy fighter, smoke pouring from it, was headed for the mountains, far below. Even as he watched, the smoke turned to a sudden, crimson burst of flame—and then where the ship had been there was only a puff of smoke and a few disintegrating fragments.
A hand fumbled for his brow and he wiped away the swe
at. Then he headed down and south for the lake. He would be able to land beside Doone’s wrecked transport. The plateau was long enough, and from what he knew of it from his visit to the wrecked ship, it was good enough for a landing. Getting off again might be quite a problem. If he ever tried.
The Goose was down on the lake when he circled over and dipped his wings, then he darted away, headed into the wind, and eased the fighter to a landing on the plateau, taxiing to a place close beside the transport.
Scotty and Young were there to greet him as he started down the hills. “Get him?” Young demanded eagerly.
“Yeah.” Turk mopped his brow and grinned at them. “I hope there’s no more of them!”
He glanced from one to the other. “Either of you ever been in that Domed House?”
“I have,” Young said. “Don’t know much about it, though.”
“I’m going in there,” Madden said. “I’ve a hunch that’s where Bekart went and where he took Raemy. We’ve got to get her back, get Doone, and get that steel box. And it’s got to be done fast, commando stuff.”
“You can count me in,” Scotty said.
Madden shook his head. “No. I’ll take Shan Bao because he talks this stuff a little. I’ll take Ryan because he’s small, tough, and it’s his job, anyway. And Young here because he knows something about it, about the Domed House, I mean.”
When the last straggler had come in and the rescued prisoners were gathered around, eating and drinking coffee, Turk Madden began going through them, one by one. Each man talked, through interpreters when necessary, telling what he knew of the Domed House, the guard system, the valley itself, the discipline and the probable location of Raemy and Bekart, if prisoners.
The guard was relieved every hour at the temple, and a sharp watch was kept for any movement to attack them. It was dusk when Turk gathered his little group around him.
“Understand this much,” he said briefly, “these men are our enemies. They have held American flyers as slaves, they have killed some, tortured others. We must rescue Bob Doone and his sister. We needn’t worry about Bekart. He should be punished, but we have enough to do without that. Let’s go!”
DARK AND COLD LAY THE VALLEY under a high-riding moon when the four men reached the icy rim and looked down. The descent to which Young had led them was at the upper end of the long, deep canyon. Far below them, chill and mysterious in the moonlight, lay the towers and rooftops of the monastery and village. Among them all, at the highest level, was the huge dome of the Domed House.
The air was crisp and still. The rattle of a stone sounded loud in the clear, sharp air. Turk rubbed his fingers against the chill and scanned the town below with a practiced, soldier’s eye. Young moved up beside him. “So far as I know, nobody’s ever tried it from here. It’s desperately steep, but working down there on a wall, once, I noticed what seemed to be a path up here. That’s our only chance.”
“We’ve got ropes if the wall runs close enough, or if the path doesn’t lead all the way around.”
“The guards are nearly giants,” Young warned. “Big men, and powerfully muscled.”
From below came eerie sounds, the strange music drifted to them, then a chanting voice lifted momentarily, high and shrill, yet barely audible where they stood. Uneasily, Shan Bao shifted his feet. Turk’s feet felt for the path.
It was actually merely a ledge, only inches wide, where a lower stratum of rock had thrust out and weathering had still to chafe it away.
Turk edged along the rocky lip, his mouth dry. Were they visible from below? He thought not, yet he seemed naked, exposed, helpless. A foot edged out, felt carefully, then his weight shifted, for an instant his hands gripped until his foot was sure, then he moved along.
Hours seemed to pass. Sweat popped out on his face and dried away. The ledge zigged to a lower ledge, which zagged away into darkness under an overhang. They felt their way through the ominous darkness, and found, finally, a place where a spring trickled water into a deep crevice. It seemed a good route, and they followed it.
Darkness closed around them. Turk felt his way, then suddenly, warned by falling water, he stopped. It was well he did, for when he put his foot out it encountered empty space. With a pencil flash, he studied the drop. It fell away far below the reach of the finger of light. He drew back, studying the rocky walls. Finally, he found a way that seemed possible. Then they were on a level again.
Turk had not begun to consider escape. He knew that a wise man never enters any hole or any place of danger without first considering a way out. Yet now there was no chance. What had to be done must be done, and there was no time for details. He moved along and smiled to himself to know that three men moved behind him.
They might have been ghosts wafted by some breeze from beyond the grave for all the sound they made.
The deep crevasse in which they walked ended so suddenly that Turk stopped and Young ran into him. They made no noise, and it was well, for they stood on the edge of a pool, no more than twenty feet across. It was a pool surrounded by shade trees, and now, kneeling on the far side was a girl. She bent down and dipped up water with a wooden bowl, and drank from it. Her face was a delicate tracery of old ivory in the moonlight, and when she put down the bowl she knelt there on the stone slab, gazing up at the moon.
Turk held himself very still. Behind him he could hear the breathing of the other men. Suddenly, and why he did not know, Turk decided he was going to speak to her. Carefully, he moved out from the others and skirted the pond on light-stepping feet. When he was no more than a few feet away, he spoke to her gently in Mandarin.
It was a wild chance, but she did not look like a Ngolok woman, nor like a Lolo. At the sound of his voice, she stiffened, and her chin came down, but she did not look at him. She did not turn her head, but looked across the garden. “Who speaks from the willows?” she asked.
He spoke very softly, knowing that now he needed her help, her willing help. “A man who seeks the woman he loves, and her brother, who are prisoners here.”
“You are not Chinese?”
“American.”
Surprisingly then, she turned her head and spoke in clearest English. “Then speak to me so. I was educated in a mission school and have talked with many Americans.”
“You know the prisoner—Bob Doone?”
“Yes, I speak with him often, although it is not allowed.” She arose and looked up at Turk. “He is the one you seek?”
“Yes, and the American girl who came today? They did get her, didn’t they?”
The girl nodded. “She came in with her hands tied and an American with her. He has been talking with Bo Hau, our master.”
“You are a prisoner, too?”
“Yes, they keep me as a hostage to keep the aid of my father, who is in Sining. He sends many caravans here, but he does not like the trade. It is done for my protection.”
“You know how we can reach Doone? And his sister?” The others had moved around the pool and stood beside him.
“It cannot be done. They are guarded with great care. Bo Hau has wanted something from the American. The man who came today with the woman, I heard him say he could show them how to get it. That he would use the air!”
“By torturing her in front of her brother!” Young said. He swore bitterly. “To think the guy was once on our side! That we ate at the same mess!”
Turk shook his head. “We cannot accept your decision that it cannot be done. It must be done, and tonight, we’ll do it.”
She nodded as one who understands when a decision is irrevocable. “Then I will take you there,” she said, “but what of the guards?”
Turk put his hand on her shoulder. “You take us.” He grinned. “We’ll cross our guards when we get to them!”
Without further hesitation she turned and led them across the garden. Had they traveled by any other route than down the water course there would have been walls to climb, but here the gardens of the Domed House ran right against the m
ountain itself.
Her way took them to a door set in a high wall. She opened it and went in, leading them across a paved court where they moved silently. At the far wall she hesitated. “I will speak to the guard,” she said, “and then—”
Silently, Shan Bao glided to the fore. “And then I shall act!” he said, low-voiced.
She opened the door and passed within, but when she had taken five steps she paused and turned slightly, then she spoke softly in some strange tongue. The guard stepped toward her, answering with a question. Swiftly, Shan Bao moved in, but some scarcely audible sound must have come to the guard. He wheeled, grasping his huge sword. Yet big as he was and fast as he was, he had no chance. The Manchu was too close, and his deadly knife darted like a serpent’s tongue and the big man fell forward. Shan Bao used the knife once more, and then they moved on.
Young breathed into Madden’s ear, “You have that guy around all the time?”
Turk nodded. He started to speak, then stopped, for now they were entering a long, dank passageway that trended down in a long, steep ramp. When they had gone a hundred yards they began to pass barred doors.
“Slaves,” the girl whispered, “slaves, and most of them Chinese or Lolos. There is another guard ahead, then the men prisoners. The girl is kept above stairs.”
Hardly had she finished speaking when a huge man loomed around the corner ahead of them. His eyes widened and his mouth opened for a bellow that would have rocked the monastery, but Turk was moving. Lunging like a fullback, he plowed into the big guard before the man could lift his sword, and, knocked from his hands, it hit the floor with a loud clang.
The huge man grabbed at Madden, but Turk slipped inside of those mighty hands and smashed a right to the guard’s heart with every ounce of his two hundred pounds of whipcord and steel muscle behind it. The big man staggered and went back on his hands and knees.
“The prisoners!” Turk snapped crisply at Sparrow Ryan. “Don’t bother about me! Go get Doone!”
The guard rushed, and Turk came to his feet, weaved inside the huge hands, and slashed the Ngolok’s face with a lancing left hand, and then he began throwing punches with every ounce of power he had. Smashing the guard back with a wicked overhand right, he hooked a left and right to the body. Wildly, the guard swung, but Madden was inside and fighting for his life. He stabbed a right to the body, then lifted his hand and hacked the edge of it across the guard’s Adam’s apple!
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 72
