Collection 2000 - Off The Mangrove Coast (v5.0) Read online

  Praise for the work of

  LOUIS L’AMOUR

  MONUMENT ROCK

  “[A] compelling blend of explosive action, period detail, humor, and insights about human nature.”

  —USA Today

  END OF THE DRIVE

  “Awesome immediacy, biting as creosote slapped on a fence post.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS

  “L’Amour’s brassy women and dusty men keep the action of these cinematic stories hot These adventure tales offer their share of the high drama L’Amour is famous for.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  OFF THE MANGROVE COAST

  “L’Amour was a man who lived life to the fullest. Fortunately for the rest of us, he remembered the details and possessed the talent to bring those experiences to life on paper.”

  —Booklist

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR THE BOOKS YOU HAVE MISSED.

  NOVELS

  Bendigo Shafter

  Borden Chantry

  Brionne

  The Broken Gun

  The Burning Hills

  The Californios

  Callaghen

  Catlow

  Chancy

  The Cherokee Trail

  Comstock Lode

  Conagher

  Crossfire Trail

  Dark Canyon

  Down the Long Hills

  The Empty Land

  Fair Blows the Wind

  Fallon

  The Ferguson Rifle

  The First Fast Draw

  Flint

  Guns of the Timberlands

  Hanging Woman Creek

  The Haunted Mesa

  Heller with a Gun

  The High Graders

  High Lonesome

  Hondo

  How the West Was Won

  The Iron Marshal

  The Key-Lock Man

  Kid Rodelo

  Kilkenny

  Killoe

  Kilrone

  Kiowa Trail

  Last of the Breed

  Last Stand at Papago Wells

  The Lonesome Gods

  The Man Called Noon

  The Man from Skibbereen

  The Man from the Broken Hills

  Matagorda

  Milo Talon

  The Mountain Valley War

  North to the Rails

  Over on the Dry Side

  Passin’ Through

  The Proving Trail

  The Quick and the Dead

  Radigan

  Reilly’s Luck

  The Rider of Lost Creek

  Rivers West

  The Shadow Riders

  Shalako

  Showdown at Yellow

  Butte Silver Canyon Sitka

  Son of a Wanted Man Taggart

  The Tall Stranger

  To Tame a Land

  Tucker

  Under the Sweetwater

  Rim Utah Blaine

  The Walking Drum

  Westward the Tide

  Where the Long Grass Blows

  SHORT-STORY

  COLLECTIONS

  Off the Mangrove Coast

  Beyond the Great Snow Mountains

  Bowdrie

  Bowdrie’s Law

  Buckskin Run

  Dutchman’s Flat

  End of the Drive

  The Hills of Homicide

  Law of the Desert Born

  Long Ride Home

  Lonigan

  Monument Rock Night over the Solomons

  The Outlaws of Mesquite

  The Rider of the Ruby Hills

  Riding for the Brand

  The Strong Shall Live

  The Trail to Crazy Man

  Valley of the Sun

  War Party

  West from Singapore

  West of Dodge

  Yondering

  SACKETT TITLES

  Sackett’s Land

  To the Far Blue Mountains

  The Warrior’s Path

  Jubal Sackett

  Ride the River

  The Daybreakers

  Sackett

  Lando

  Mojave Crossing

  Mustang Man

  The Lonely Men

  Galloway

  Treasure Mountain

  Lonely on the Mountain

  Ride the Dark Trail

  The Sackett Brand

  The Sky-Liners

  THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS

  The Riders of the High Rock

  The Rustlers of West

  Fork The Trail to Seven

  Pines Trouble Shooter

  NONFICTION

  Education of a Wandering Man

  Frontier

  THE SACKETT COMPANION: A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels

  ATRAIL OF MEMORIES: The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique L’Amour

  POETRY

  Smoke from This Altar

  CONTENTS

  Fighters Should Be Hungry

  It’s Your Move

  Off the Mangrove Coast

  The Cross and the Candle

  The Diamond of Jeru

  Secret of Silver Springs

  The Unexpected Corpse

  The Rounds Don’t Matter

  Time of Terror

  Afterword

  FIGHTERS

  SHOULD BE

  HUNGRY

  I

  Abrutal blow in the ribs jerked Tandy Moore from a sound sleep. Gasping, he rolled into a fetal position and looked up to see a brake-man standing over him with his foot drawn back for another kick. With a lunge Tandy was on his feet, his dark eyes blazing. Fists cocked, he started for the brakeman, who backed suddenly away. “Unload!” he said harshly. “Get off! An’ be quick about it!”

  Tandy was a big young man with wide shoulders and a sun-darkened face, darkened still further by a stubble of black beard. He chucked with cold humor.

  “Nope,” Tandy said grimly, and with relish. “If you want me off, you put me off! Come on, I’m going to like this!”

  Instead of a meek and frightened tramp, the brakeman had uncovered a wolf with bared teeth. The brakeman backed away still farther.

  “You get off!” he insisted. “If that bull down to the yards finds you here, he’ll report it an’ I’ll get chewed out!”

  Tandy Moore relaxed a bit. “You watch yourself, mister! You can lose teeth walkin’ up an’ kickin’ a guy that way!” He grabbed the edge of the gondola and lifted himself to the top, then swung his feet over to the ladder. “Say, Jack? What town is this anyway? Not that it makes much difference.”

  “Astoria, Oregon. End of the line.”

  “Thanks.” Tandy climbed down the ladder, gauged the speed of the train, and dropped off, hitting the cinders on the run.

  As though it had been planned for him, a path slanted down off the grade and into a dense jungle of brush that lined the sides and bottom of a shallow ditch. He slowed and started down the path.

  Astoria was almost home, but he wasn’t going home. There was nothing there for him anymore. He trotted along near the foot of a steeply slanting hill. He could smell the sea and the gray sky was spitting a thin mist of rain.

  At the bottom of the muddy path lay a mossy gray plank bridging a trickle of water, and beyond it the trail slanted up and finally entered a patch of woods surrounded by a wasteland of logged-off stumps.

  Almost as soon as Moore entered the thicket, he smelled the smoke of a campfire. He stopped for a moment, brushing at his baggy, gray tweed trousers with his hand. He wore a wool shirt open at the neck, and a wor
n leather jacket. His razor, comb, and toothbrush lay in one pocket of the jacket. He had no other possessions. He wore no hat, and his black hair was a coarse mass of unruly curls. As presentable as a hobo could be, he started forward.

  Of the four men who sat around the fire, only two commanded his attention. A short, square-shouldered, square-faced man with intelligent eyes reclined on the ground, leaning on an elbow. Nearby a big man with black hair freely sprinkled with gray stood over the fire.

  There was something familiar about the big man’s face, but Tandy was sure he had never seen him before. His once-powerful build was apparently now overlaid with a layer of softness, and his eyes were blue and pleasant, almost mild.

  The other two were typical of the road, a gray-faced man, old and leathery, and a younger man with dirty skin, white under the grime, and a weak chin and mouth.

  “How’s for some coffee?” Tandy asked, his eyes shifting from one to the other.

  “Ain’t ready yet, chum. Don’t know that we have enough, anyway.” The white-faced young man looked up at him. “They booted you off that drag, huh?”

  Tensing, Tandy turned his head and looked down at the fellow, his eyes turning cold. It was an old song and this was how it always started.

  “I got off on my own,” he said harshly. “Nobody makes me do nothin’!”

  “Tough guy?” The fellow looked away. “Well, somebody’ll take all that out of you.”

  Tandy reached down and collared him, jerking him to his tiptoes. They were of the same age, but there the resemblance ceased, for where there was bleak power in Tandy’s hard young face, there was only weakness in the tramp’s.

  “It ain’t gonna be you, is it, sucker? You crack wise again and I’ll slap some sense into you!” Tandy said coolly.

  “Put him down,” the big man said quietly. “You’ve scared the wits out of him now. No use to hit him.”

  Tandy had no intention of hitting him unless he had to, but the remark irritated him more. He dropped the other man and turned.

  “Maybe you want to start something?” he demanded aggressively.

  The big man only smiled and shook his head. “No, kid, I don’t give a damn what you do. Just don’t make a fool of yourself.”

  “Fool, huh?” Tandy could feel them backing him up, cornering him. “You listen to me, you yellow …” He reached for the big man.

  A fist smashed into his mouth, and then another crossed to his jaw and he hit the dirt flat on his back.

  Tandy Moore lay on the ground for an instant, more amazed at the power of that blow than hurt. The big man stood by the fire, calm and unruffled. Rage overcame Tandy, he came off the ground with a lunge and threw everything he had into a wicked right hand.

  It caught only empty air, but a big, hard-knuckled fist slammed into his chest and stopped his rush, then a right crossed on his jaw and lights exploded in his brain. He went down again but threw himself over and up in one continuous movement. His head buzzing, he spat blood from broken lips and began to circle warily. This big fellow could punch.

  Tandy lunged suddenly and swung, but the big man sidestepped smoothly and Tandy fell past him. He cringed, half expecting a blow before he could turn, but none came. He whirled, his fists ready, and the big man stood there calmly, his hands on his hips.

  “Cut it out, kid,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to beat your skull in. You can’t fight a lick on earth!”

  “Who says I can’t!” Tandy lunged and swung, only this time he was thinking and as he swung with his right, he shifted suddenly and brought up a short, wicked left into the big man’s liver.

  The fellow’s face went gray, and the square-faced man on the ground sat up suddenly.

  “Watch it, Gus!” he warned.

  Gus backed away hastily, and seeing his advantage, Tandy moved in, more cautious but poised and ready. But he ran into something different, for the big man was moving now, strangely graceful. A left stiffened his mouth, a right smashed him on the chin, and another left dropped him to his knees.

  Tandy got to his feet and licked his cut lips. The old guy was fast.

  “You can punch, darn you!” he growled. “But this scrap ain’t over. I’ll fight until you drop!”

  “Kid,” the man warned, “we’re fightin’ for no good reason. You’re carrying a chip but it’s not for us. If I put you down again, I’ll not let you get up. You know I’m not yellow, and I know you’ve got nerve enough to tackle all of us. What do you say we cut this out?”

  Tandy hesitated, backing up. The man on the ground spoke, “Come on, son, have some coffee.”

  Tandy dropped his hands with a shrug.

  “Mister,” he said with a shamefaced grin, “I shouldn’t have gone off like I did. I asked for it.” He eyed Gus with respect. “You can sure use your dukes, though!”

  “Don’t take it hard, kid.” The square-faced man smiled at him. “He used to be a prizefighter.”

  Across the fire the white-faced kid kept his mouth shut, not looking at either of them.

  Tandy Moore shrugged. “Well he got me, but that fancy stuff ain’t no good in a real scrap! Why, there’s plenty of men in the lumber camps and mines could beat Joe Louis’s head in if they had the chance.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Gus said quietly. “Fightin’ is like anything else. A professional fighter does his job better than a greenhorn because he knows how.

  “That fancy stuff, as you call it, is nothin’ but a lot of things a lot of fighters learned over a thousand years or more. That’s how scientific boxing was born. You were using it when you feinted and hit me with the left.”

  Tandy stared at him, then shrugged. “Ahhh, I figure you can either fight or you can’t!”

  Gus smiled at Tandy. “How many times have you been licked, kid?”

  “Me?” Tandy bristled. “Nobody never licked me!”

  “That’s what I figured,” Gus said. “You are big enough, tough enough, and aggressive enough so you could fight every night around hobo jungles like this one and never lose. In the ring, almost any half-baked preliminary boy would cut you to ribbons.

  “I was through as a fighter ten years ago. I haven’t trained since but right now I could chop you into pieces and never catch a punch. I was careless, or you wouldn’t have clipped me as you did.”

  Tandy scoffed. “Maybe, but if I had a chance at one of those prelim boys you talk about, I’d show you!”

  “Gus”—the square-faced man had seated himself on a log—”maybe this is the guy? What do you think?”

  Gus stared at Tandy with a new expression in his eyes. He looked him over thoughtfully, nodded slowly. “Maybe … Kid, did you mean what you said? Would you want to try it?”

  Tandy grinned. “I sure would! If there was a shot at some dough!”

  The gymnasium in Astoria was no polished and airy retreat for overstuffed businessmen. It was a dim and musty basement with a heavy canvas bag, darkened around the middle by countless punches thrown by sweat-soaked gloves, a ring slightly smaller than regulation, its ropes wound with gauze, three creaking speed bags, and a broken horse. In one corner there were barbells made from different sizes of car and truck brake drums. A wan light filtered through dirty windows set high in the walls.

  It was there, in a borrowed pair of blue trunks that clung precariously to his lean hips, and under them a suit of winter underwear rescued from a basement table by Gus Coe, that Tandy Moore began the process of learning to be a fighter. Their sole capital was a ten-dollar advance from a bored promoter, and five dollars Gus wheedled from a poolroom proprietor. Briggs, Gus’s friend of the square face, leaned back against the wall with a watch in his hand, and Gus stood by while Tandy, bored and uncomfortable, looked at the heavy bag doubtfully.

  “Now look,” Gus said patiently, “you got a left hand but you don’t use it right. Lift that left fist up to shoulder height an’ hold it well out. When you hit, punch straight from the shoulder and step in with that left foot. Not much, j
ust a couple of inches, maybe. But step in. Now try it.”

  Tandy tried it. His gloved fist smacked the bag solidly but without much force. Tandy looked unhappily at Gus.

  “You mean like that? I couldn’t break an egg!”

  “You keep trying it. Shoot it straight out, make it snap. An’ bring your fist back on the same line your punch traveled.” He stepped up to the bag. “Like this—”

  The left shot out and the bag jumped with the explosive force of the blow. Tandy Moore looked thoughtful.