The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (38 page)

Tupa glided to his side, moving soundlessly.

“Papua boy, he come!” he whispered, pointing up the bank.

Moving toward him in the early light of dawn he saw a dozen powerful savages.

“Wussi River boy,” Tupa said softly. “They bad. Plenty mean.”

The Wussi River was some distance west, and these warriors were far off their usual beat. Ponga Jim shifted his rifle to the hollow of his arm and waited. His dealings with the natives there had been friendly, but for the most part they were a surly bunch. Many of them understood a few words of German and called small coins “marks.” Obviously, a remnant of the touch of civilization acquired when the Germans had owned that section, prior to the world war.

Jim stepped forward. “You see Papua man? White girl?”

The Wussi River men stared at him sullenly, muttering among themselves, but did not reply. Then one of them, a big man, stepped from the crowd and began a fierce harangue. His voice rose and fell angrily, and he made fierce gestures. Ponga Jim watched him warily.

“What’s he say, Tupa?” he asked guardedly.

“He say you go away. You bad white man. Qasavara very angry. Pretty soon he call all white men, all who know or talk to white men. Mebbe so all people who no fight white men.”

“Tell him that’s a lot of hooey,” Jim said coolly. “Tell him I’m a friend. Tell him Qasavara is dead, he was killed by Qat, the good spirit.”

Tupa told him quickly, but the native shook his head stubbornly. Tupa’s eyes widened.

“He say Qasavara has many men. Pretty soon he kill all English. He say Qasavara has dragons, two of them, with wings. Pretty soon take plenty heads.”

“Yeah?” Jim said. He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “So they got some ships? You tell that monkey face I personally will take care of Qasavara. Tell him he swiped my woman.”

Jim grinned and shifted the gun in his hands, watching the natives warily.

“Hey, Skipper!” Brophy said suddenly. “Here comes some more from the other direction! About twenty of them!”

P
ONGA
J
IM WHEELED
, but as he turned, he caught a flicker of movement from the jungle trail along which they had come.

“All right, boys,” he said casually. “We’re in for a fight. So take it easy and back up to those snags on the bar. Brophy, you and the Strangler get over there behind those logs now. Just walk over, taking it easy. As soon as you get sheltered, cover our retreat. Get me?”

“Right down the groove, Skipper!” Brophy said cheerfully.

“Selim! Abdul! Hassan!” Jim snapped quickly. “Take that downriver bunch. Tupa, watch the jungle. You, too, Singo. Macabi, you follow Brophy back to those snags.”

He had noticed the snags before they were scarcely on the bank of the river. A half dozen giant jungle trees of the ficus type had floated here and beached themselves on Sago Bar. Tumbled together, they formed a rude semicircle facing the jungle, open toward the river. They presented a natural fortress from four to six feet high.

“All right, Tupa,” he said finally, “you tell that big walrus we’re going out on the bar to cook some breakfast.”

The big man spoke suddenly, fiercely, walking rapidly toward them. Tupa looked worried.

“He say you move, he kill!” he said.

“Yeah?” Jim grinned. He handed his rifle to Tupa. “All right, when I sock this lug, you guys leg it back on that bar. Get sheltered as quick as you can.” The big native, a powerful man with huge muscles and an ugly face came closer. “Watch it, Brophy!” Jim said loudly. “Here comes the fireworks!”

The big native stepped close and grabbed at Jim’s arm. Then Jim hit him a short, wicked right chop that laid the man’s cheek open for four inches. A short left hook came up into the man’s belly, and the savage pitched forward on his face. A howl of anger went up, and suddenly, they rushed.

Ponga Jim whipped out his automatic and fired rapidly as he backed up. Two natives spilled over on their faces, and then the rifles behind him began to crash. He turned and legged it for shelter. Something caught at his sleeve, but it wasn’t until he was safe behind the log that he looked down. Slug’s face was pale.

An arrow had gone through his sleeve near the wrist. One of those ugly, barbed arrows typical of the Papuans. Jim drew it out carefully.

“Would you look at that?” he said. “A yard long and six sharp bits of bone stuck in the shaft. If that got in a man they’d have to cut a six-inch hole to get it out. And those things are steeped in decayed meat. Starts septic poisoning.” He tossed the arrow over the log. “Let that be a lesson to you guys. Don’t any of you get hit.”

Five of the natives were stretched out on the riverbank, and the rest had drawn back to the edge of the woods. There were at least a hundred savages inside the edge of that jungle by now, not over seventy yards away. Jim sat down and reloaded the clip in his automatic.

“You guys watch your step now,” he said cheerfully. “There’s nine rifles here and if we can’t keep those guys from crossing that beach, we’re a bunch of saps. Those boys can fight, but they haven’t any belly for this stuff. If they start to come out, wait until nine of them are in sight. Then let them have it.”

“H
ERE THEY COME
!” Slug said suddenly, and Ponga Jim whirled to see a wave of savages break from the edge of the jungle. Coolly, carefully, his men began to fire, and the brown line wilted like wheat before a mowing machine.

The attack broke, and the remaining natives fled, with at least thirty men scattered on the beach.

“Now what do they think of Qasavara?” Ponga Jim muttered drily. “Get set, you guys! Here comes the
Semiramis
!”

The freighter was steaming up the river, and slowly the bow swung over in the channel, and a boat was lowered. On top of the chart house, Red Hanlon suddenly appeared and jerked the canvas jacket off the machine gun. He sat down behind it, and suddenly the gun began to rattle, drawing a thin line of steel along the jungle.

Red Hanlon met Jim at the rail as he came up the pilot ladder.

“We got a guy here says he knows right where the House of Qasavara is,” he said.

Ponga Jim turned and looked at the powerful young native. Big, stalwart, and beautifully muscled, he carried a spear and a large knife in a wooden sheath. His head was shaven in front. Jim frowned.

“You’re no Papuan,” he said. “You’re a Toradjas boy.”

The big native nodded eagerly. “Me Toradjas. Me go Celebes, Banggai, Balabac, Zamboanga. Pretty soon me come Salamoa, come here.”

“You get around, don’t you?” Jim said, speculatively. “You know where the House of Qasavara is?”

“Me sabby. These boy,” the Toradjas made a careless gesture that took in all Papua, “they afraid Qasavara. I see his house close by Ambunti. Five white man there, one hifty-hifty. Two white man tie up. One you friend.”

“My friend?” Jim said, incredulously. “What makes you think so?”

“Me see you him Amurang one time. You go Qasavara?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “What do you call yourself?”

“Man in Makassar, he call me Oolyssus,” he said proudly. “Now Lyssy.”

“Ulysses?” Jim grinned. “Not far wrong at that, boy. You get around. All right, let’s go!”

All day they steamed steadily up the Sepik. Here and there a cloud of herons flew up, or a flock of wild pigeons. Along the muddy banks crocodiles sunned themselves, great, ugly-looking fellows, many times larger than any seen downstream.

“What’s the plan, Skipper?” Slug said, walking up from the main deck at eight bells.

Jim shrugged. “No plan. Ambunti is two hundred and sixty miles from the mouth. It will be nearly morning before we get there. I’m going to take Lyssy and go out to that House of Qasavara, and what happens after that will be whatever looks good.”

“You’re not leaving me, Skipper. There’s going to be a mess back in those woods, and you know it. You can just figure Brophy in on that, or I quit!”

“Okay, Slug,” Jim said. “I can use you. I think this Toradjas is on the level. Good men, those fellows, good seamen, fierce fighters, and they don’t have a bit of use for other natives. Think they are superior. I’ve seen a lot of them, and they’d tackle their weight in mountain lions.”

I
T WAS PITCH-DARK
when they dropped the anchor in the shelter of a river bend near Ambunti. The current was slack there, and the water sounded three fathoms. Silently, a boat was lowered, settling into the water with only a slight splash. Then the three men rowed ashore and slipped into the brush.

Ponga Jim stumbled along the path in the dark, following Lyssy and with Brophy bringing up the rear. They had made something more than two miles when suddenly Lyssy stopped dead still. In the same instant, a light flashed in Jim’s eyes, and before he could move, a terrific blow crashed down over his head. He felt himself sinking as a wave of blinding pain swept over him, and he desperately tried to regain his feet. Then there was another blow, and he slid to his face in the muddy trail.

I
T WAS A LONG TIME
later when he came to. His lids fluttered open, but he lay still, without trying to move, but trying desperately to understand where he was. He realized suddenly that he was lying face down on a stone floor. He twisted, and an agonizing pain struck him like a blow. He turned over slowly.

“Ah!” said a voice sarcastically. “The sleeping beauty awakens!”

He struggled to sit up, but was bound hand and foot. Still, after a struggle, he managed it. Slowly, he glanced around.

“Well, well! What a pretty bunch this is!” he muttered.

Major William Arnold sat opposite him, his face dirty and unshaven. Beside him was Colonel Sutherland, a plump man with a round British face and calm blue eyes. Further away along the wall was Carol herself, her clothes torn, her face without makeup, but looking surprisingly attractive.

“William,” Ponga Jim said slowly. “I never thought I’d see the time when I’d see you wrapped up like that.”

There was a groan, and he turned slightly to see Slug Brophy coming out of it.

“You, too, eh? What happened to our Toradjas?”

“He got away,” Slug grunted. “That guy has skin like an eel. They grabbed him, and then he was gone—just like that.”

“Now what?” Carol said brightly. “All you brave and bold he-men should be able to get out of a little mess like this.”

“I don’t think you can depend on them, Miss Sutherland,” a cool voice said in very precise English.

Jim turned his head stiffly and saw two men standing in the door. One was a thick, broad-shouldered man with a powerful neck and the arms of an ape. The other man was tall, obviously a man of some culture.

“Permit me, Captain Mayo,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “My coworker, Wilhelm Blucher. I am Count Franz Kull.”

As he spoke, two more men appeared in the door.

“Ah, yes! And this is Fritz Heittn, with whose brother you have already come in contact, and this,” he indicated the tall, very dark man with massive, stooped shoulders, “is Torq Vokeo. You will know him well, very well, no doubt!”

“Vokeo is our expert in the matter of helping people to remember—you understand? He is, I might add, very efficient.”

He turned abruptly. “No more of this horseplay. Major Arnold, you will give me copies of the codes I asked for at once. You will also tell me where your other men are located and what their tasks are. I want that information by noon tomorrow. If I do not have it then, Miss Sutherland will be tortured until you give it to us. I should dislike to leave her to the tender mercies of Torq, but that is a matter for you and her father to decide.”

He looked down at Ponga Jim coldly. “As for you, Captain Mayo, there can be only one answer—death. We can’t have you in our way further. Within twenty-four hours our bands of native warriors will strike Salamoa, Lae, Madang, Hollandia, and elsewhere. Two of our planes will bomb Port Moresby, and within a matter of hours, New Guinea will again be in our complete possession. Nevertheless, I shall deem it a great privilege to have the honor of wiping you off the slate. You’ve given us no end of trouble.”

“Yeah?” Jim grinned insultingly. “And, Herr Kull. I’m going to give you a lot more. Do you think I came up here without reporting what I knew?”

Kull laughed. “We’ll see about that! As for reporting what you knew, we had you under espionage until you were on the river. There has been no chance since then.”

Turning, he motioned to the others. “We’ll give them a little time to think matters over. Then you may have them, Torq.”

When the heavy door closed and locked, Ponga Jim shrugged.

“Nice people!” he said expressively. “But if he thinks I’m going to lie here and wait, he’s got another guess coming.”

Just then the door opened softly, and Torq Vokeo stepped in. He held an iron spit, its end red hot and glowing. He smiled at Jim, baring his teeth wolfishly.

“You think is funny, eh? I show you!”

Quickly, Vokeo stepped across the room.

“Get set, Slug!” Jim said suddenly.

Throwing himself on his back, he kicked out viciously with his bound legs. Vokeo, caught with a terrific kick on the upper legs, stumbled and fell headlong. Instantly, Slug Brophy rolled over on top of the man.

Arnold, his eyes suddenly gleaming with hope, rolled over quickly three times, and rolled across Torq’s legs. Then Sutherland rolled on his head. Cursing viciously, his oaths muffled by Sutherland’s weight, Torq struggled to get free, but the three heavy bodies were too much for him.

Even as the man fell, Jim rolled over and pushed his tied wrists against the red hot spit. The smell of burning hemp filled the room. Time and again his wrists wavered, and burned him, but he persisted. Then, suddenly, he gave a terrific jerk, swelling his muscles with all his great strength. Slowly then, the rope stretched; another jerk, and it came apart!

With a leap, he was on his feet, and in a matter of seconds, he had untied Arnold. Then, as Arnold bent over Brophy’s wrists, Jim grabbed Torq by the throat to stifle his shouts, and calmly slugged him on the chin. Then, while Arnold and Brophy freed Sutherland and his daughter, Ponga Jim bound the unconscious man and gagged him.