The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (7 page)

Using a box of safety matches that she had taken from the shack in San Esteban, she struck match after match with no answering flame; they had become too wet. Finally, she tried holding the match head against the striking area with the ball of her thumb as she rasped it along. The match flared but the pain in her hand made her drop it in the moss, where it went out. Blowing on her burned thumb, she was not surprised to find herself cursing in a manner befitting a sailor or dockhand. Gritting her teeth, she struck another match. There was the smell of burning sulfur, and even as she pulled her thumb away she knew she’d blistered it again; however, she lit her tiny fire and slowly fed the flames. Then she stripped the achingly cold clothes off, wrung them out, and laid them out across the log near the fire.

Shuddering, half frozen, and naked, she huddled by the log and prayed for her clothes to dry. In the dark and silent wood, exposed in every way, Julie was sure that this was when Kubelik would find her. He would follow her tracks, even where she had tried to make it hard for him. He would smell her fire. He would find her and…

She turned and, fumbling with the cartridges, loaded the gun. She put a round in the chamber and set the safety. “Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you, if you come here, I’ll kill you!”

Then she laughed.

She laughed at the picture of herself, stark naked and freezing in a primitive forest, clutching a rifle and daring a man like Pete Kubelik to come and get her. What made it funny was the thought of her husband, champion of the working class, seeing her now. That her often drunk, ineffective coffeehouse bolshevik could never even imagine this, which made her cough out a hard, mean laugh from lips that were set in a snarl.

“Come on, damn you.”

From somewhere inside her there came a deep swell of emotion. Some of it was the loss of her father. Some of it was fear of this terrible man. Some of it was anger, finally not with herself, but with her no-good husband.

But most of it was an emotion that had no name, something ancient and primal, the feeling that a tiny animal might have when, after being pursued to the end of its endurance, it turns and bares its teeth. Not only does it have to fight, but something inside it has changed…now it
wants
to fight.

M
ORNING FOUND
Pete Kubelik painfully awake in his room at the San Esteban trade store. He had clumsily fallen off one of the deadfalls that Julie Marrat had skillfully negotiated in her escape the previous day. Kubelik had sprained his ankle, and now the swelling had become serious and excruciating. He took a swallow from a bottle of vodka he had half finished the night before and limped to the front door of the store. Throwing off the heavy bar, he stepped out into the gray and drizzling dawn.

Today he and Rudy would have to finish up what that damn girl had started. Regardless of the pain that shot through him every time he took a step, regardless of the hangover pounding in his temples, he’d find Julie Marrat, and if he couldn’t make her come back with him, he’d kill her. He’d kill her anyway, but there’d be more pleasure for him if he brought her back alive.

He surveyed the long beach and the high cliffs. Time to get moving. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but that movement made his vision blur with pain.

Maybe he’d just kill her.

An invisible club knocked Pete Kubelik’s bad leg out from under him. He went face-first into the sand, gasping in shock. He lurched around, trying to sit up even as the crack of the gunshot echoed back from the cliffs. Looking down, he saw blood welling from a hole dead center in his knee. He clawed for the pistol behind his hip.

Down on the beach, less than one hundred yards from the door of his store, the dark sand moved and shook. Julie Marrat stood up from the place where she had lain, half buried, through the night, the sights of her father’s old carbine trained on Kubelik’s front door. She worked the bolt on the rifle, and when Rudy came charging out of the building, shotgun in hand, she shot him in the stomach. Then she started forward.

Kubelik half raised the .45, but she spoke before he could bring it to bear.

“Don’t! I won’t kill you if you throw it away.”

He was tempted to try, but the barrel felt heavy, too heavy, and down in his leg the pain was starting to rise like a giant comber. He dropped the gun and began to curse, a long quiet stream of the foulest language Julie had ever heard.

She picked the gun up. “I came back for my battery cable,” she said. “You shouldn’t have taken it…or stolen our boat.” She went up to the store and took the bolt from Kubelik’s rifle. Then, using a rock, she beat the hammers from the trader’s shotguns. The cable she eventually found lying on the deck of the schooner.

She fired up the schooner’s auxiliary and threw off the lines. Several of the other inhabitants of the station had come down to the water and were watching her curiously. She called out to them.

“I’ll leave this boat in the mouth of the San Tadeo River if you want it.” They looked at her as she turned and headed down the inlet and toward the gulf. The last time she looked back, they had walked over to where Pete Kubelik lay in the sand. They had all taken up sticks or rocks, but were not striking him. They were just standing there. Finally, they slipped out of sight as she rounded the headland and started down to the sea.

Meeting at Falmouth

N
ight, and the storm…howling engines of wind roared over the Lizard and above the slate roofs of Falmouth. Volleys of rain rattled along the cobblestones like a scattering of broken teeth.

Shoulders hunched against the wind and rain, the rider stared through the darkness toward a bend in the road ahead. It was January of 1794, and the worst storm of the winter was raging over the Atlantic, screaming above Land’s End and lashing Mount’s Bay with its fury.

Suddenly, a woman darted from the rocks beside the road and lifted her hand. Startled, the man drew up sharply, one hand dropping to his greatcoat pocket.

“Oh, sir! Sir!”

He looked down into the white, rain-wet face of a girl. She was shabbily dressed, with an old piece of sailcloth serving as a shield from the rain.

“What are you doing out here, girl?” he demanded. “You’ll get a nasty bit of cold!”

“Sir, beggin’ your pardon, but are you Mr. Talleyrand?”

“Talleyrand?” He was puzzled. “No, I’m not Talleyrand, and what would a serving wench like you be wanting with him?”

“It’s up ahead, sir. I’m maid at the Bos’n’s Locker, sir. The inn, it is. There’s a bad lot there, a-plottin’ they are, a-plottin’ against Mr. Talleyrand.”

“And you came out here to warn him?”

“I did, sir. I’d want no man murdered by them, not even a Frenchman, sir.”

“And what makes you think Talleyrand will be here tonight? Only yesterday he sailed from England for America.”

“I know that, sir. They talked of it. But they think he will be coming, sir.”

“Thank you, girl. Now you’d best get inside before they find you’re gone—” His voice broke off sharply as two men came running through the rain.

Both were roughly dressed, and in a momentary lull in the storm, he saw one of them wore a black patch over his eye. A tall, lean man he was, with the face of evil on him.

“So here you are!” His voice sounded shrill in the storm. “What are you doin’ out here on the road, wench?” He grabbed at her shoulder and the girl stepped back.

Instantly, the rider pushed his horse between them. In his hand was a drawn saber. “Get back there, man! Leave the girl alone! She came to bring me a message, and it will be none of your affair!”

“Who’re you?” The man with the patch peered up at him from the rain, careful to keep free of the saber point. He blinked his eyes, then drew back, smiling suddenly, almost leering. “Ahhhh, Tom! It’s the Yank! It’s that American who’s been about the tavern. He’s no bit of trouble for us, let’s be back inside.”

Without another word, they turned and hurried back through the rain.

When they had gone, the rider glanced down at the girl. “Put your foot in my stirrup, girl, and we’ll have you back to the inn in no time.”

When she had her foot in his stirrup, he put an arm about her waist to steady her. “Say nothing of this now, not to anyone. You understand?”

“Oh, yes sir! I’ll not speak, sir!”

Dropping her to the ground, he then rode around to the stable. A hard-faced man with a wooden leg limped toward him, peering through the rain. “Oh, it’s you?” He accepted the bridle. “Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll be carin’ for the mare.”

The American stamped his feet to shake off some of the water, then walked swiftly across the worn cobbles to the side door of the inn. There he repeated his stamping, and opened the portal.

Wind almost tore the door from his hand, and the candles gasped and went out. He stood stock-still, listening carefully until the lights were glowing again. The inn shutters rattled and, on the hearth, the flames guttered and spat.

The man with the black patch over his eye was hunched over a table with two other men. “I tell you, Tom, they will never pass the Lizard this night!”

“What then?” Tom was a burly man in a shabby cloak.

“Then it’s here they will come! Only this morning, Brynie sighted their ship, and fighting a head wind she was! They’ll put in here or be blown miles off their course.”

“And if they come, we can still earn our guineas.”

The American gave them no second glance, walking to a table near the fire and stripping off his rain-wet cloak. He removed his saber and placed it beside the cloak, but within easy grasp.

A compact, well-built man he was, but not large. Obviously a gentleman, but more than that. His was a strong, handsome face, his hair silvering at the temples. With it he wore the air of one born to command, yet it was a face that showed suffering, and was marked by some deep tragedy.

Drawing a book from his pocket, he opened it. He glanced up at the innkeeper. “Sherry,” he said, “and if you have it, a bit of bread and cheese.”

He glanced at the pages of the book, then at the three men. Slovenly rogues they were, if he had ever seen them. Scum, but a bloody, dangerous sort of scum, and plotting no good to anyone.

“Simple,” Tom said then, waving a dirty hand, “they will come ashore, and if they come ashore, it’s here they must come. So then, we have them.”

“You speak of
them…
it is
him
we want.”

“Garnet will know him.”

“A tall man, he is, a tall man with a limp, a fair bit of nobleman and church.”

The American turned a page of his book. The plotters had spoken in low tones, but their voices carried to him. Still, they had said nothing to be noted…had he not been warned by the maid.

Talleyrand…he knew the name well. A refugee from the French revolution now living in England, but about to leave for America. His was the reputation of a shrewd diplomat, cool but charming. He had a narrow escape from the guillotine, but evidently had not left all his enemies when he fled from France. These rogues were British if he had ever seen them, the sort of scum that can be had to kill for hire. But Garnet—that name had a French sound.

Obviously, the plotters were correct. No ship could beat past the Lizard on such a night, and if by some chance she did pass, then she could never hope to get beyond Land’s End in the face of such a wind.

Tom jerked his head toward the American. His voice lowered, but could still be heard. “Who’s that one? What…?”

One of the others whispered a name, and all their faces turned toward him. The American felt shame mingled with anger send hot blood creeping up his neck and face. He turned a page of the book and the print blurred before his eyes. Dimly he heard the words, “Not him. He’ll not interfere, not the likes of him.”

So they thought him a coward as well, did they? Many things, but never that. He had been no coward at Saratoga, he—

On the hearth, the flames hissed as a drop of water fell down the chimney. The host, seeing his empty glass, crossed the flags to him. “Yes, Salem, if you please,” the American said. “It’s a foul night and the wine warms a man. They bottle with this, I think, some of the sunshine of Spain.”

“That they did, sir. Would you have me leave the bottle?”

“If you will…”

Battalions of wind threw their weight against the shutters, then withdrew, rattling them with angry fingers.

So they would never forget? A man made one mistake…but it was the worst mistake. The worst of all.

The maid moved about the room, frightened and pale. From time to time she darted a glance at him, but the American continued to read.

Finally, the three arose, drew their cloaks about them and left the tavern. The innkeeper moved to stoke the fire, then placed a heavy chunk on the coals. He threw a glance at the American, then jerked his head after the departing trio. “A bad lot that, sir. Gallows bait for sure.”

“They are staying here?”

“The night only, sir. I’d not have them longer if I had to call the watch from Falmouth.”

“A good idea.” The American turned a page of his book, then picked up his glass and drained it. “Salem?”

“Sir?”

“There will be some Frenchmen coming alone. One will be named Talleyrand. Would you tell him, from a friend, to have a care? To be on his guard?”

“From
them,
sir? There’s that in the wind?”

“More than we know, I’m thinking. You’ll tell him?”

“Of course, sir. But—”

“As a precaution only. I’ll be back.”

The maid started to speak, then stopped. Yet she hurried to the door and looked up at him, her eyes frightened. He chucked her gently under the chin. “You worry too much,” he said.

He opened the door then, stepped out and drew it behind him. Falmouth was a cluster of roofs several hundred yards away. The Bos’n’s Locker stood on the harbor road away from the town. Overhead the sign creaked dismally in the wind.

Drawing his collar tighter, the American bent his head into the wind and turned down the road in the direction of the docks. There was no trusting the men he had seen. It would be like them not to wait for Talleyrand to come to the inn, but to murder him along the coast and throw his body in the sea.

It was not in him to sit idly by while a man was attacked without warning. Or was it in part because he was irritated with inaction?

Rain whipped his face and pounded at him with tiny, angry fingers. He could see the men ahead of him along the road, and when they stopped near some dark buildings along the wharf, he drew back into the shadows himself.

From the darkness nearby a man stepped. “Followin’ ’em, are ye? Now Dick’ll be proud to know that. He—”

The American stepped quickly from the shadows and one hand grasped the newcomer by the throat, the other by the shoulder. Fiercely, he slammed the man back against the building, took a twist of the man’s collar and let up only when he became afraid unconsciousness would keep the other from understanding his words. “Open your mouth,” the very calmness of the American’s voice was more frightening than rage would have been, “and I’ll have the heart out of you. Get away from here now, and be glad that I haven’t opened you up with my saber.”

Gagging and pawing at his bruised throat, the man staggered back, then turned and hurried away into the storm. The American watched him for a few minutes, then glanced back to where the others waited in the darkness. Far away down the channel he thought he saw a light, and he moved along the building, well back in the darkness, his saber in his hand.

“Bloody awful night!” It was the man the others had called Dick.

“It is that.”

“Any sign of her?”

“I be’ant lookin’. Soon enough when they put down a boat. If she comes, she’ll come soon, you can mark that.”

“Where then, Dick? Where’ll we do’t?”

“We’ve got to see him, first. Garnet will show us the man.”

An hour passed on heavy feet. The wind did not abate, but the ship came. Her sails rolled up slowly, and the sailors at the canvas were unseen in the howling dark. They heard the rumble of her anchor going down, and later the chunk of oars, a sound caught only at intervals when the wind hesitated to gather force.

The American shifted his saber and dried his palm on his trousers beneath his greatcoat. Then he clutched the sword again.

He did not hear the boat come alongside, only suddenly there were men walking and he heard the sound of them speaking French. It was a language he knew, and he listened. He learned much of what he knew in Quebec, and this was but little different. But no names were called, and the three men went by, two tall men and one short, stout, and slipping as he walked. At times he ran a few steps to keep up, and puffed when he slowed down.

Dick and his companions fell in behind, and the American followed them. And so they came again to the inn.

By then he was before them. He had run, and gotten around them and into the back door as from the stable. When they entered, he was again at his table, a glass of sherry poured, and engrossed in his book. They entered, and he glanced up.

“You are from the port?” the American asked.

“From the sea.” The man who replied was tall, cold of eyes, and walked with a slight limp. The American knew him from description to be Talleyrand. “We are for America,” the man said.

“It is my country.”

Talleyrand glanced at him with quick interest. “Then you can tell us of your country. We go there as strangers. What can you tell of America? Is it a fair land?”

The American closed his book carefully. “A fair land? Yes, it is. If I were to tell you of it as I think of it, you would think me a poet rather than a soldier. And I do think of it, I think of it always.”

The newcomers warmed themselves at the fire and the American went on, speaking to them but to himself also. “You will find it colder there than here, but the houses are strong and tight and warm. There will be less talk of art and more of the frontier, less of books and more of land, but there will be good food, and good drink. You will find it a land of strong men, of full-breasted women, fit to mother a race of kings.”

“And this man Washington? Have you met him? We in France have heard much of him.”

The American hesitated, glancing at his wineglass. “Washington? Yes, I knew him. He is a great man, a greater man than most of us believed. Though he does not, you might say, have a flair. He is a shrewd, thoughtful, considering man, but he has a temper.”

“So I have heard.” Talleyrand clasped his hands behind his back. “It needs a great man to retreat when all around him are demanding a victory. He knew the important thing was not to risk his army, to keep his fighting force intact.”

The American gestured to the table. “Will you join me, gentlemen? With the wind as it is, you must plan to stay for hours, perhaps for days. You are Monsieur de Talleyrand?”

“I am. And this is Monsieur de Fougier. And our companion, Paul Garnet.”

The American looked around at the name. Garnet had a hard face with cold eyes and a tight-lipped mouth. So this was the traitor? He hesitated over that thought.

“You will like my country,” he said gently. “It is a fine, strong land. The earth will be frozen now, beneath the snow. The rooftops will be white, and a thousand chimneys will lift their fingers of smoke toward the sky, but soon after you are there, the spring will come. The trees will bud and the fields grow green, and the men will plow the earth and you will hear the heavy wagons along the dirt roads. It is a young land, monsieur, a growing, raw, wonderful land, and…and…”