Off the Mangrove Coast (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Read online

  When the car pulled in at the edge of the dark road, I knew this was it.

  “Get out!”

  Ravallo let Pasty Face unload first, and then he put his foot in my back and shoved.

  Maybe Pasty Face was supposed to trip me. Maybe Ravallo didn’t realize we were so close to the canyon, but that shove with his foot was all I needed. I took it, ducked the guy with the gun, and plunged off into the darkness.

  It wasn’t a sheer drop. It was a steep slide off into the dark, brush-filled depths of a canyon whose sides were scattered with boulders. I must have run all of twenty feet in gigantic steps before I lost balance and sprawled, headfirst, into the brush.

  Behind me a shot rang out, and then I heard Ravallo swear.

  “After him, you idiots! Get him!”

  Kicking my feet over, I fell on the downhill side of the bush and flame stabbed the night behind me, but I wasn’t waiting. This was no time to stand on ceremony and I was not going to take a chance on their missing me in the darkness of that narrow canyon. I rolled over, scrambled to my feet, and lunged downhill.

  Then I tripped over something and sprawled headlong. A flashlight stabbed the darkness. That was a different story, and I lay still, feeling for what I’d tripped over. It was a thick branch wedged between the sprawling roots of some brush. Carefully, I worked it loose.

  Somebody was coming nearer. I lay quiet, waiting and balancing my club. Then I saw him, and he must have moved quietly for he was within two feet of my head!

  He took a step and I stuck my club between his feet. He took a header and started to swear. That was all I needed, for I smacked down with that club. It hit him right over the noggin and I scrambled up his frame and wrenched the gun from his hand.

  “Stan?” Ravallo called.

  I balanced the gun and wet my lips. There were two of them, but I was through running.

  I cocked the gun and squared my feet, breaking a small branch in the process.

  He fired, but I had been moving even as I realized I’d given away my position. I hit the dirt a half-dozen feet away. My own pistol stabbed flame and he fired back. I got a mouthful of sand and backed up hurriedly. But Pete Ravallo wasn’t happy. I heard him whispering hoarsely, and then heard a slight sound downhill from me.

  I turned, and Ravallo’s gun stabbed out of the dark and something struck me a blow on the shoulder. My gun went clattering among the stones, and I knew from Ravallo’s shout that he knew what had happened.

  Crouching like a trapped animal, I stared into the blackness right and left. There was no use hunting for the gun. The noise I would make would give them all they needed to shoot at, and Pete Ravallo was doing too well at shooting in the dark.

  Fighting desperately for silence I backed up, then turned and worked my way cautiously back through the brush, parting it with my hands, and putting each foot down carefully so as not to scuff any stones or gravel.

  I was in total darkness when I heard the sound of heavy breathing, and close by. It was a cinch this couldn’t be Pete Ravallo, so it must be the thick-necked mug. I waited, and heard a slight sound. I could barely see the dim outline of a face. Putting everything I had into it, I threw my left!

  Beggar’s luck was with me and it smashed on flesh and he went sliding down the gravel bank behind him. Instantly, flame stabbed the night. One bullet whiffed close by, and then I began to run. I was lighter than Pete, and my arm was throbbing with agony that seemed to be eased by the movement even as pressure seems to ease an aching tooth. I lunged at that hill and, fighting with both feet and my one good hand, started to scramble back for the top.

  Ravallo must have hesitated a moment or two, trying to locate his driver. I was uphill from him anyway, and by the time he started I had a lead of at least forty yards and was pulling away fast. He tried one more shot, then held his fire. A light came on in a distant house.

  Tearing my lungs out gasping for air, I scrambled over the top into the road. The car was sitting there, with the motor running, but I’d no thought of getting away. He still had shells, probably an extra clip, too. I twisted into the driver’s seat and threw the car into gear and pointed it down the embankment. There was one sickening moment when the car teetered, and then I half jumped, half fell out of the door.

  In that wild, fleeting instant as the car plunged headfirst downhill, I caught a glimpse of Pete Ravallo.

  The gangster was full in the glare of the headlights, and even as I looked, he threw up his arms and screamed wildly, insanely into the night! And then all I could hear was the crashing tumble of the car going over and over to the bottom of the canyon.

  For what seemed a long time I lay there in the road, then crawled to my feet. I felt weak and sick and the world was spinning around so I had to brace myself to stand. I was like that when I heard the whine of a siren and saw a car roll up and stop. There were other sirens farther off.

  Reardon was in the third car to arrive. He ran to me.

  “What happened? Where’s Ravallo?”

  I gestured toward the canyon. “How’d you know about him?”

  While several officers scrambled down into the canyon, he helped me to the car and ripped off my coat.

  “Joe McCready,” Reardon said. “He knew you’d gone to Dallas, and he heard the cabbies say that Ravallo was watching the airport. So, I wired Dallas to see if they knew anything about Craine or Ravallo. The paper told me that you found a story about Giuseppe Ravallo’s body. So I had some boys watching Pete at this end while we tried to piece the thing together.

  “They had gone for coffee and were just getting back when they saw Ravallo’s car pulling away. A few minutes’ checking and they found you’d come in on the plane. We thought we’d lost you until we got a report of some shooting up this way.”

  Between growls at the pain of my shoulder, I explained what had happened. There were still gaps to fill in, but it seemed Ravallo had been trying to find out who killed his brother.

  “He either had a hunch Craine had done it for the money Giuseppe was carrying, or just happened to see him and realized he was flush. That would be all he would need to put two and two together. However he arrived at the solution, he was right.”

  Fishing in my coat pocket, I got out the snapshot. It was a picture of Giuseppe Ravallo, bearing a strong resemblance to Pete, sitting at a table with Larry Craine.

  “Maybe Craine left New Orleans with Ravallo, and maybe he followed him. Anyway, when Craine left New Orleans he was broke, then he hit Dallas and soon had plenty of money. He bought a suit of clothes there, then came on here and started living high and fast. Ravallo was back behind him, dead.”

  My arm was throbbing painfully, but I had to finish the story and get the thing straightened out.

  “Pete must have tailed him to Sue’s apartment, maybe one of those goons down there in the canyon was with him. He probably didn’t know where he was going and cared less. He saw his chance and took it. Pete seems the vendetta type. He would think first of revenge, and the money would come second. Her car evidently drove up before he had the money. Or maybe he didn’t even try to get it.”

  Reardon nodded. “That’s a place for us to start. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the D.A.” He grinned at me. “But when you took off to Dallas, you had me sweating!”

  All the way back to town, I nursed my shoulder and was glad to get to the hospital. The painkillers put me under and I dreamed that I was dying in a dark canyon under the crushing weight of a car.

  When I fought my way back to life after a long sleep, it was morning and Sue Shannon was sitting there by the bed. I looked up at her thoughtfully.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I thought I was dying in a dream…and then I woke up and thought I’d gone to heaven.”

  She smiled.

  “I was wondering if I’d have to wait until you found another corpse before I saw you again?” I asked.

  “Not if you like a good meal and know of a
quiet restaurant where we can get one.”

  My eyes absorbed her beauty again and I thought heaven could wait, living would do for now.

  THE ROUNDS DON’T MATTER

  YOU GET THAT way sometimes when you’re in shape, and you know you’re winning. You can’t wait for the bell, you’ve got to get up and keep moving your feet, smacking the ends of your gloves together. All you want is to get out there and start throwing leather.

  Paddy Brennan knew he was hot. He was going to win. It felt good to weigh a couple of pounds under two hundred, and be plenty quick. It felt good to be laying them in there hard and fast, packed with the old dynamite that made the tough boys like Moxie Bristow back up and look him over.

  Moxie was over there in the corner now, stretched out and soaking up the minute between rounds as if it were his last chance to lie in the warm sunlight. You wouldn’t think to look at him that Moxie had gone the distance three times with the champ when the champ was good. You wouldn’t think that Moxie had a win over Deacon Johnson, the big black boy from Mississippi who was mowing them down.

  You wouldn’t think so now, because Moxie Bristow was stretched out on his stool and breathing deep. But he knew that all his breathing wasn’t going to fix that bad eye or take the puff out of those lips.

  Paddy was right. He was going good tonight. He was going good every night. He was young, and he liked to fight, and he was on the way up. He liked the rough going, too. He didn’t mind if he caught a few, because he didn’t take many. He liked to see Caproni down there in the ringside seats with Bickerstaff. They handled Tony Ketchell, who was the number-one heavyweight now. And in the articles for tonight’s fight, there was a clause that said he was to fight Ketchell on the twenty-seventh of next month if he got by Bristow.

  The bell clanged, and Paddy went out fast. When he jabbed that left, it didn’t miss. It didn’t miss the second or the third time, and then he turned Bristow with a left and hit him on the chin with a chopping right. It made Moxie’s knees buckle, but Paddy Brennan didn’t pay any attention to that. Their legs always went rubbery when he socked them with that inside right cross.

  Moxie dropped into a crouch and bored in, weaving and bobbing. The old boy had it, Paddy thought. He could soak them up, but he was smart, too. He knew when to ride them and when to go under and when to go inside.

  Paddy had a flat nose and high cheekbones, but not so flat or so high that he wasn’t good-looking. Maybe it was his curly hair, maybe it was the twinkle in his eyes, maybe it was the vitality, but he had something. He had something that made him like to fight, too.

  He moved in fast now, hooking with both hands. Bristow tried a left, and Paddy went inside with three hard ones and saw a thin trickle of blood start from over Moxie’s good eye.

  Moxie was watching him. He knew it was coming. Paddy walked in, throwing them high and hard, then hooked a left to the wind that turned Moxie’s face gray. He had Moxie spotted for the right then, and it went down the groove and smacked against Bristow’s chin with a sickening thud. Moxie sagged, then toppled over on his face.

  *

  —

  PADDY TROTTED TO his corner, and when he looked down he could see Caproni and Bickerstaff. He was glad they were there, because he had wanted them to see it. He wished Dicer Garry were there, too. Dicer had been Paddy’s best friend, and he might have guessed more of what was in the wind than anyone else.

  Brennan leaned over the ropes, and Caproni looked up, his face sour.

  “Now Ketchell, eh?” Paddy said. “I’m going to take your boy, Vino.”

  “Yeah?” Caproni said. His eyes were cold. “Sure, sure…we’ll see.”

  Paddy chuckled, trotting across the ring to help Moxie to his corner. He looked down at Bristow, squeezing the other fighter’s shoulder.

  “Swell fight, mister. You sure take ’em.”

  Moxie grinned.

  “Yeah? You dish ’em out, too!” Paddy squeezed Moxie’s arm again and started away, but Moxie held his wrist, pulling him close. “You watch it, look out for Vino. You got it, Irish. You got what it takes. But look out.”

  Sammy came out of Brennan’s corner. “Can it, Mox. Let’s go, Paddy.” He held out Paddy’s robe. Sammy’s face looked haggard under the lights, and his eyes shifted nervously. Sammy was afraid of Vino.

  Paddy trotted across the ring and took the robe over his shoulders. He felt good. He vaulted the ropes and ducked down to the dressing rooms under the ring. Sammy helped him off with his shoes.

  “Nice fight, Paddy. You get Ketchell now.” But Sammy didn’t look happy. “You don’t want to rib Vino like that,” he said. “He ain’t a nice guy.”

  Paddy didn’t say anything. He knew all about Vino Caproni, but he was remembering Dicer Garry. Dice had been good, but he hadn’t got by Ketchell. Maybe Dicer could have whipped Ketchell. Maybe he couldn’t. But he fought them on the up and up, and that wasn’t the way Caproni or Bickerstaff liked to play.

  Dicer and Paddy had worked it out between them three years ago.

  “Give me first crack at it, Paddy?” Dicer suggested. “We’ve been pals ever since we worked on the construction crew together. You’ve licked me three times, and you know and I know you can do it again.”

  “So what?” Brennan said.

  “So…” Garry mused. “You let me get the first crack at the champ. You let me take the big fights first. You come along after. That way maybe I can be champ before you get there. You can have a fight for the belt anytime. You’ll beat me eventually if I’m still there. We’ve been pals too long. We know what’s up.”

  And Garry had almost made it. He knocked out Joe Devine and Bat Turner, got a decision over Racko and a technical kayo over Morrison, all in a few months. Then they matched him with Andy Fuller, who was right up there with the best, and Dicer nearly killed him. So he was matched with Ketchell.

  Caproni and Bickerstaff had worked a few years on Ketchell. He was in the big money, and he had been taken along carefully. He was good. But could he beat Dicer?

  Paddy Brennan peeled the bandages and tape from his fists and remembered that last note he had from Garry.

  They tried to proposition me. I turned them down. This Vino ain’t no good. He got tough with me and I hit him. I broke his nose.

  Dicer

  *

  —

  SERGEANT KELLY O’BRIEN stopped in, smiling broadly. The sergeant was father to Clara O’Brien and Clara and Paddy were engaged. You could see the resemblance to Clara. O’Brien had been a handsome man in his day.

  “ ’Twas a grand job, son. A grand job. You’ve never looked better!”

  “Yeah,” Paddy said, looking up. “Now I get Ketchell, then the champ.”

  Brennan picked up his soap and stepped into the shower, put his soap in the niche in the wall and turned on the water. With the water running over him, he reached for the soap. All the time he was thinking of Garry.

  If it hadn’t been for that truck crashing into Dicer’s car, he might be fighting his best pal for the title now, and a tough row it would have been. If it hadn’t been for that truck crash, Tony Ketchell might have been out of the picture before this. Dicer Garry would have whipped Ketchell or come close to it. Vino Caproni had known that, and so had Bickerstaff.

  The worst of it was, he might never have guessed about that truck if he hadn’t seen the green paint on Bickerstaff’s shoe sole. He’d been out to see Dicer’s car, and seen the green paint that had rubbed off the truck onto the wreck. And it was almost fresh paint. Then later that day, he had talked with Bickerstaff.

  The gambler was sitting with one ankle on the other knee, and there was green paint on the sole of his shoe, a little on the edge.

  “That was tough about Dicer,” Bickerstaff said. “Was his car smashed up pretty bad?”

  “Yeah,” Paddy told him, and suddenly something went over him that left him outwardly casual, but inwardly alert, and deadly. “Yeah, you seen it?”

&
nbsp; “Me?” Bickerstaff shook his head. “Not me, I never go around wrecking yards. Crashes give me the creeps.”

  *

  —

  IT WAS A little thing, but Paddy Brennan went to O’Brien, who had been a friend of Garry’s, too.

  “Maybe it don’t mean a thing,” Paddy said, “or again maybe it does. But when you figure that Ketchell’s had a buildup that must have cost seventy grand, you get the idea. Ketchell’s good, and maybe he would have beat Dicer, but then again maybe he wouldn’t. It was a chance, and guys like Vino don’t take any chances.”

  O’Brien nodded thoughtfully.

  “I’ve wondered about that. But it all looked so good. You know how Dicer used to drive—anything less than sixty was loafing. And he hit the truck, that was obvious enough. Of course, it would have been a simple matter to have had the truck waiting and swing it in the way. Garry drove out that road to his camp every morning.

  “If you are right, Paddy, it was an almost foolproof job. The driver, Mike Cortina, he’d never had an accident before; he’d been driving for three years for that same firm. He was delivering that load of brick out that road, so he had a reason to be there. They had a witness to the crash, you know.”

  *

  —

  WHEN HE HAD finished his shower, he dressed slowly. The sergeant had gone on ahead with Clara, and he would meet them at a café later. Sammy loitered around, looking nervous and cracking his knuckles.

  “Look, Paddy,” he said suddenly, “I don’t want to speak out of turn or nothing, but honest, you got me scared. Why don’t you play along with Vino? You got what it takes, Paddy, an’ gosh—”

  Paddy stopped buttoning his shirt. “What is it? What d’you know?” he asked, staring at Sammy.

  “I don’t know a damn thing, Brennan. Honest, I—”

  “Do you know Cortina?” Paddy asked, deliberately.

  Sammy sank back on the bench, his face gray.

  “Shut up!” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t go stickin’ your neck out, Paddy, please!”

  Paddy stood over Sammy, he stared at the smaller man, his eyes burning.