The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Read online

  “TUAN JERU! Come out and face me!” I stood there, the Mauser slung diagonally across my back. I would have rather left it with Lacklan but if they hadn’t seen it on me they would have suspected an ambush. As it was I’d be lucky not to get a bullet or a blowgun dart.

  After a moment there was a motion in the brush and the slight form of Jeru appeared with the boy in the aviator glasses at his side. They started for me across the last few feet of the rocky ridge. Jeru wore a wood-sheathed parang on one hip and the ancient pistol on the other. The boy carried Lacklan’s rifle. They stopped a short distance away.

  “You speak poorly,” sneered Jeru, commenting on my fragmentary Malay.

  “I speak this language no better than I have to,” I said loudly, my main audience was Jeru’s followers, “but I speak the language of the spirits well. My obat is as good as yours in this place. Go away from here. Go and leave us to ourselves. The gods of this mountain do not want you!” I pinched my fingers together, placed them between my lower lip and upper teeth, and whistled as loud as I could.

  The boy took a step back and shook his head in shock. He brought up the long rifle but I didn’t move. I tried to calmly stare him down…I was sure I was going to die.

  Then there came a sound from the cave like a sudden rush of wind. In the boy’s glasses I saw reflected a momentary flash of orange flame in the tunnel mouth. Raj, on my signal, had poured the entire bottle of stove fuel on the fire.

  With a rush like a great wave crashing on a reef the bats vomited from the cave. They came piping and flapping blindly into the morning sunlight driven by the smoky fire that Raj was now stoking with all the wood he could find. With the lower entrances to the tunnels blocked by smoke and flame they sought the upper opening in numbers that were terrifying to behold. They were a great disoriented black cloud that shot from the hole in the mountaintop as if from a high pressure hose. They fluttered and dove and poured into the sky above our heads.

  Jeru crouched in surprise and I stepped in and before the boy could pull the rifle’s trigger I slapped the barrel aside and kicked him in the groin. He went down, leaving me with the gun, and I saw two of Jeru’s men racing away down the ridge, their tattooed backs glistening with the sweat of exertion and fear.

  I turned to the old man and with a whining growl he drew his parang. He cut at me with such speed that I barely could move in time, shoving the rifle sideways into the blade. There was a ringing of steel and Lacklan’s gun was torn from my grasp, falling to the rocks at my feet. Jeru reversed and I leaped back, the blade slicing air near my belly. He was fast; for an old man he was awfully fast.

  I got my knife out and took a cut at him but he thrust along my arm, his blade leaving a trace of fire and a line of blood…he was better at this than I was. Better by a long shot.

  He stabbed and cut. We fought back and forth there on that high ridge with a clear sweep of forest below us on one side and the white glare of the clouds beneath us on the other. And then he cut me, the knife grazing my chest, the blade momentarily catching on the Mauser’s leather strap, and it was all over. His blade snagged and I caught his arm and was behind him in one movement. It was my fight then and for him it was hopeless. As good as he was with a knife, he was an old man. I was stronger than he was and I was heavier, too. I broke his arm but there was no give in him so I clipped him on the jaw, a punch that would have put away a much bigger man, and I’m not proud to say that I broke that, too.

  He was unconscious. I was down, the world spinning around me, my chest bloody, my arm bloody, too bloody. The boy scrambled away, sobbing. There was the sound of gunfire. Helen was standing over me working the bolt on John’s fancy rifle. Brass flew, bright against the sky. Men fled downhill, disappearing into the trees.

  They broke open the first-aid kit, poured something in my wounds that hurt more than the knife had. Raj was getting me on my feet and my head was clearing; I had never really been out, just gray for a while, like I’d held my breath too long.

  We were at the edge of the slope when I remembered. I pulled away from Raj’s hands and went back. Jeru moaned when I turned him on his back. He looked at me, eyes no longer full of anger but neither was there fear. He waited for me to do whatever I had to do. It took only a moment.

  “Thank you, Tuan Jeru,” I told him. “Go to a village where no one knows you, live your days as an old man should. Cross my path again and I’ll take your head and hang it on my porch.”

  I left him there, bats circling above, and I staggered off after the others. We went down past the cave where the fire still burned but was now low and dying. Then we were in the jungle and soon it was darker and hotter.

  IT WAS TWO DAYS back to the boats. Two days of struggle and pain. John Lacklan and I setting our pitiful pace. His leg was swollen and my cuts and the places where the buckshot hit me had become infected. As much as I disliked the man he had a certain kind of toughness. It was the toughness of the littlest kid on the team or perhaps the brainy child that nobody liked…but he wasn’t going to let that leg stop us. I had to make myself keep pace with him.

  The boats were intact. In this I was surprised for I was sure that even if we got to the river without another fight I thought they would have stolen or destroyed the boats. I guess with their burned longhouse, several dead, and wounded leader they had enough to deal with. Raj took us downriver in the bigger dugout with Fairchild’s motor jury-rigged to the stern. On the trip downriver I got sicker and they tell me when I arrived in Marudi I was unconscious and running a high fever. For the second time in two years I had returned from upriver barely alive. But this time I had the difference.

  I LAY IN BED and got better. Vandover came down and brought the doctor. He shot me with penicillin, cleaned my wounds and dusted them with sulfa, then they sat on the verandah and drank the last of my scotch. I stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling.

  She came to visit me an hour before the mail boat left for Singapore. The room was closed and dark but sunlight blazed through every crack in the shutters. She was dressed in a white traveling outfit and as she stood in the doorway she was a vague figure beyond the patched mosquito netting. I sat up.

  “Mr. Kardec?” She came into the room, taking off a large pair of dark glasses. “I just came to thank you. You saved our lives.” I could see that the wedding ring, with its empty socket, was missing from her finger.

  I wanted to make some kind of smart comment but I didn’t really know what it would be. “How’s your husband?” I asked.

  “He’s got a bad sprain. All that walking we did made it worse. We’re leaving today…” She stopped for a moment, holding on to some kind of feeling, I couldn’t tell what.

  “He won’t talk to me,” she said. “It’s like I did something unforgivable back there but I don’t see that I really had a choice.”

  “I think he’s trying too hard to be a strong man.” I thought this was right, it felt right. “Something inside of him is desperate. He’s barely holding on to something but I don’t know what it is. He’d of rather died back there than be saved by you.”

  “John was so brilliant. You should have seen him when we met. They all listened when he spoke, Dr. Teller, even General LeMay.”

  “This is a different world, Helen. You knew that, I could see it. Sometimes when there is nothing between you and nature you find out things you wish you didn’t know…sometimes when you look at yourself you are smaller in the scheme of things than you thought you were.” I shifted, sitting up a little farther, leaning back against the headboard. “There’s been a time or two when I found myself in the middle of a dark forest praying for God to save me. You have to accept your fear and survive. It’s not about your image of yourself, it’s just about getting back in one piece.”

  “I guess so,” she said.

  We were both silent for a moment. Then she straightened up, all business.

  “We should pay you, at least what we were going to for guiding us. We owe you that, and more
.”

  I carefully moved the mosquito net aside and swung my feet to the floor. The cut under my bandages pulled tightly and it burned, but it was a healing pain.

  “I don’t want any money,” and then before I could take it back, I said, “I did it for you. I don’t want to lose that.”

  She crossed the room and bending down, she kissed me. For just a moment she held my face in her hand. “What will you do?” she asked. “How will you ever get home?”

  I didn’t really wonder how she knew this, I expect Vandover or Fairchild must have told her…it didn’t matter. I sat straighter, trying to feel the strength in my body. It was there, not much, but coming back. I opened the nightstand drawer.

  “Never underrate a man who has lived as I have, Helen. Just as a man who has lived as I have would never underrate a woman like you.” I grinned. “I’m not proud and I do what it takes to survive.” I held out my hand and opened it to show her. It was ironic, when I had gone into the forest for personal gain I had returned with nothing, but when I had gone intending to help others somehow I had been rewarded.

  On my palm lay, in a setting of woven leather, the thong broken from when I had torn it from his neck…the diamond of Jeru!

  Death, Westbound

  It was nearly dark when the westbound freight pulled out of the yards, and two ’boes, hurrying from behind a long line of empties, scrambled into one of the open doors of a boxcar about halfway between the caboose and the locomotive.

  There were two more men in the car when they crawled in after their bundles. One of these was sitting at one side of the door where he could see without being seen, a precaution against any shack that might drift along or be standing beside the track. Joe had had experience with shacks, and much worse, with railroad dicks, he knew their kind. Sometimes the shacks were pretty good guys, but a railroad dick is always a louse.

  The other occupant of the car lay in the shadow apparently sleeping.

  The newcomers, two hard-faced young fellows carrying bundles, looked around.

  Joe’s curiosity got the better of him. “Westbound, fellas?”

  “Yeah—you?”

  “Uhuh. L.A., if we can make it.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, me an’ the kid over there.”

  “Chee, I never even see ’em. S’matter, ’s he asleep?”

  “Naw, he’s sick I guess, we been on this train t’ree nights now, an’ he’s been sick all the while. I don’t know what’s the matter. He coughs a lot, maybe he’s a lunger.”

  “Chee, that’s kinda tough, ain’t it? Sick as a goddam drag when the bulls is all gettin’ tough.”

  “The Santy Fe is the toughest line of ’em all, ’member hearin’ ’bout Yermo Red?”

  “Aw hell, Yermo was on the U.P. I made it thru there once on the bum with a coupla Polacks, he was plenty tough, that guy.”

  “Naw, he just t’ought he was tough, them guys is mostly yellow when there is a showdown.”

  Joe walked over to look at the kid. The boy’s face was damp with perspiration and he looked bad. One of the others, a flat-nosed young fellow with heavy shoulders, walked over.

  “Cheesus, he looks bad, don’t he? ’At kid should aughta have a doctor!”

  “Yeah.”

  The other young fellow walked over. “S’matter, Heavy? Is he bad off?” Then seeing the kid’s face, he murmured: “Gawah!”

  All three returned to a spot near the door. A heavy silence had descended upon the group. Joe rolled a cigarette and complied in silence to the others dumb request for the makin’s.

  Heavy looked glumly out at the night. “Cheesus, that’s a helluva place to get sick in! Wonder if he’ll croak?”

  The slight youngster with the pale face who answered to the name of Slim, grunted: “Naw, he’ll pul t’ru, a guy that has to live like this is too tough to die like anybody else.”

  Heavy looked at Joe and with a jerk of his head toward the kid: “Known him long?”

  “Two weeks I guess. He had a coupla bucks and split ’em with me when I was bad off. He’s a good kid. We been hunting jobs ever since, but this depression finished the work, seems like they ain’t nothing left to do anymore.”

  “Wait’ll we get a new president, what’s Hoover care for us laborin’ stiffs?”

  Slim snorted derisively: “The next one won’t be a bit better. One way or the other we get it in the neck!”

  Heavy moved into a corner of the car and carefully arranging a roll of newspapers to form a place to lie, he lay down and drew his coat over his head to sleep. A few minutes later his snores gave ample proof of his success.

  Slim jerked his head toward the sleeper: “Will he bother the kid, d’ye think?”

  Joe shook his head: “Naw, the kid’s out of his head, I guess he’s about all in. When this train stops I’ll try and find somebody to give him some dope or somethin’.”

  They lapsed into silence broken only by the steady pound and rattle of the swiftly moving freight train and the snores of the sleeper. At intervals the kid would move and talk indistinctly for a minute or so and then once more fall into silence. Outside the car the night was quite moonlit and they could see the fields flickering by in monotonous rotation. The countless cracks in the old car made it cold and dismal. Slim dosed off against the door, knees drawn up to his chin. Joe sat silent watching the fields outside and thinking.

  It had been over a year since he had worked more than a few hours at a time, over a year of living in boxcars, cheap flophouses and any dump he could find to crawl into. But after all, what had it been before? Just a round of jobs, a few months and then a long drunk, or maybe a short one, if he got himelf rolled in some bawdy house. The kid here, he’d been the only pal he’d ever had that played square, an’ now he was sicker’n hell. Life didn’t mean much to a guy when he was just a workin’ stiff. Sure, he’d boozed a lot, but what th’ hell? Didn’t he have a right to have a little fun? Well, maybe it wasn’t fun, but at least a guy wasn’t thinkin’ about the next shift or how much ore he had to get out. Joe dozed off, but came to with a start as a red light flashed by and the freight began to slow for a station.

  Slim and Heavy both woke up with the awareness that a hobo acquires when travelling.

  “What kind of a burg is this we’re comin’ into, Joe? Looks like a damned jerk-water!”

  “Yeah—I know the place. Just a water tank and a general store. Better keep outa sight, from now on, there’s a bad bull in this next town if I remember right!”

  The long drag slowly pulled to a bumping, groaning stop, and Slim, watching his chance when the shack was at the other end, dropped off.

  Up ahead they could hear the shouts of the train crew as they worked about the engine, and once a shack went by, his lantern bobbing along beside the train. He just casually flashed it into the door as he passed, and as all three were out of sight, they were passed unnoticed.

  A whistle up forward, more groaning and bumping and jarring, and the train slowly gathered momentum.

  Heavy’s forehead wrinkled anxiously: “Wonder what’s become o’ Slim? He should’ve made it by now!”

  And a minute later, as the train gathered speed in the shadow of several oil tanks, he did make it, swinging into the car with a dark object in his hand.

  “Whatcha got Slim?” Heavy leaned forward curiously.

  “Aw, pull in your neck, Hefty, I just grabbed the kid a cuppa java an’ a orange at that lunch counter!”

  “But Cheesus, Slim, you only had a nickel!”

  “Sure, I got the guy to gimme a cuppa java for the nickel and I swiped the orange when the lunch-counter girl wasn’t lookin’. If he wants his cup back he’ll have to pick it up in the next town!”

  Joe rolled the kid over on his back and slowly raised him to a sitting position: “Here, kid, it’s a cuppa coffee, try an’ get it down, it’ll do you good.”

  The kid tried to drink, but ended in a coughing spell that left flecks of blood on his lips. Jo
e laid him back on the floor and returned to the others near the door.

  Slim looked helplessly at the orange: “Cheesus, guess he couldn’t tackle this, he seems pretty far gone.” He raised his hand as if to throw the orange away and then on second thought shoved it into his coat pocket.

  Once more the train bumped along, the moon had gone down now and the night was black outside the door. Heavy was once more asleep, and Slim, chin resting on his knees, was dozing off. Joe still sat looking out into the night, his face grimy from cinders and dust, his beard graying in spots. At last he too dozed off into a half-sleep.

  The freight was slowing for the next town when a swiftly bobbing flashlight awakened them. Joe was the first to comprehend.

  “Cheesus, Guys, we’re sunk, it’s that railroad dick!”

  Heavy cursed and jumped for the door to swing out when a harsh voice broke in: “Alright, Bo, stay where y’are or I’ll shoot yer guts out! Come on, you, all of ya! Get ’em up in the air!”

  “Alright, pile out on the ground an’ less look you guys over. Keep ’em up, now!” The railroad dick’s voice was harsh and his face ugly in the half-light. His companion, a weasel-faced fellow, glided up and started frisking them with the question: “Got anythin’ on ya bigger’n a forty-five?”

  Slim spoke agrievedly: “Aw why don’t you guys leave us alone? We’re just huntin’ a place to work. What would we doin’ packin’ rods!”

  The big fellow stepped forward beligerently: “Shut up, Bum, I’ll do the talkin’ an’ you’ll answer when yer spoken to, get me?”

  Slim said nothing. The weasel-faced man pulled their personal effects from their pockets smirking over the few odds and ends a man carries about. A couple of jackknives, a piece of soiled string, a dirty handkerchief or two, a pocketbook containing a pair of poll tax receipts, a card for a hod-carriers union two years old, a few letters. The weasel-faced man read the letters with an occasional glance at Slim’s angry face. Finally from one of them he extracted a picture of a girl which he held out for the big man to see with an insulting remark.