The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (63 page)

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.

I
T 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.

Instantly, he banked, then pushed the stick forward and sent the ship down in a steep dive, opening up with the machine guns. A blur of snow lifted near the men, and the line melted. He hauled back on the stick and the Grumman climbed steeply, then he swung back over the freighter and cleared her deck with a burst of fire.

Then Diakov was hammering on his back and pointing. He looked up to see a V of planes coming toward him about five hundred feet up. Turk’s face turned grim and he climbed even more steeply. The Grumman went up and up and up, reaching for altitude. When he looked again, he could see the planes more closely. Three light bombers all painted with the rising sun. They were probably there in case the Russians had brought up a destroyer, or to sink the ship if it looked like it would get away. After all, it was an American ship.

Madden swung the Grumman around. Stand by, they said. That meant to keep the situation in hand. One of the planes was climbing to meet him, and coming up fast. He had outflown the Japanese before, and could do it again, but in a ship like this, against a war plane, even the best of flying would have to be nine-tenths luck to come out alive. He streaked away from the climbing aircraft and went into a dive over the next lowest bomber.

The fellow swung away, and Turk’s first burst of fire missed. Then he did an Immelmann and came in on the bomber’s tail. His second burst painted a string of holes along the bomber’s fuselage, and he saw the string reach the pilot. The bomber shot up, suddenly fell off, and going into a slow falling turn, burst into a bright rose of flame.

A streak of tracers shot by him, and Turk pulled the Grumman around, diving straight for the trees and the low-hanging fog with the other plane after him. The Japanese was a flier, and with his greater speed was coming up fast. Turk felt an icy blast of air as Diakov swung open the roof hatch behind the wing and deployed his gun mount. The Cossack slammed his machine gun onto the pivot and opened up as Turk banked the ship steeply, his wingtip almost grazing the treetops, and roared into the fog bank. The war plane pulled up slightly, and Madden’s Grumman bucked and pitched through the mist with prayer the only force keeping him out of the invisible treetops.

Turk pulled up, into the clear, but the other plane had swung around and was coming at him from the side. The big Grumman was in a spot, and Turk banked around and headed straight for the nearest war plane, his twin motors wide open and all his guns hammering. The Japanese held on grimly, and the two planes shot at each other with terrific force, but in the split second before they would have come together, the Japanese lost his nerve and pulled back on his stick. The plane shot up, and Diakov raked his underside with a wild burst from his gun. Then he shot on by, and only had Diakov’s shout of triumph to know that he had scored again.

Strangely, the last aircraft was streaking off over the Sea of Japan and climbing. Turk banked a little and glanced down to find himself coming in toward the freighter. A Jap on the shore was desperately trying to cast off. Turk shoved forward on the stick and opened up immediately with a burst of fire. The man crumpled, seeming to come all apart at the seams, and a second man, rushing for the woods, was caught on the edge of the raking burst and fell, his body tumbling in a complete somersault.

Turk came around and trimmed back for a hot landing on the river just before the freighter. The Cossack sprang ashore with a line, and Turk, leaving him to make the ship fast, grabbed his automatic and dashed for the ship.

Richards. The man was still aboard, and he needed to be apprehended.

Turk reached the top of the ladder just as Richards stepped out of the amidships house. The man’s face turned livid and, without regard for Turk’s gun, sprang at him. Madden hesitated only a second, then shoved the gun in his pocket and sprang forward, throwing punches with both fists.