Novel 1970 - Reilly's Luck (v5.0) Page 7

  “I don’t think Luigi would do it.”

  “Maybe not. I don’t like to think so, either. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, and keep moving while we are doing it.”

  They walked in silence for better than a mile, and then paused for a brief rest.

  The stars were out, although far up in the sky over the mountains it was growing light. Presently they could distinguish one tree from another, and they could see where they were putting their feet. The green valley of the Otz lay far below them now, shadowed still, although they walked in sunlight. Val was a good walker, and at one time or another he had done a lot of walking. He had always loved the mountains, and much of his walking had been done at much higher elevations than this. He had gone over passes twelve or thirteen thousand feet up in Colorado; and if what he had heard was correct, few of these passes were anywhere near that.

  The men who lived in this region were all mountain men who hunted on these high slopes, and would be making better time if they tried to follow, but as Will told him, “We’ve a good start, Val, and they know I am armed. Most of them are family men who would have little sympathy with such men as Pavel Pavelovitch.”

  Will kept their pace easy, and made frequent stops. Shortly after noon they made a longer one, ate a little bread and cheese, and drank from a cold stream that ran off the mountain nearby.

  By midafternoon, Val was having a hard time of it. His legs were tired, and the climb had become steeper, or so it seemed to him. Once, when they had stopped, they sat watching a golden eagle swing against the vault of the sky.

  “It’s almost worth it, Val. We’d never have taken this hike otherwise.”

  “Will, I’ve been thinking. Won’t they send word over the Brenner Pass? A rider or a coach could make the trip to Merano, and officers could be waiting for us when we cross into Italy.”

  Reilly smiled. “Yes, you are right. That’s why we aren’t going into Italy. At least, we’ll see. There are two ways, and the shortest and probably the best route does take us into Italy, but for just a few miles.”

  The wind off the mountain was cold. Val plodded on, no longer thinking of anything but the moment when they would stop. Will seemed to be looking for something, and suddenly it was there…a narrow ravine that fell away steeply for about a hundred yards, and then ended in a precipice. He turned and descended the ravine.

  “Careful now, Val,” he said. “One slip, and it will be the end of you.”

  They came abruptly to another crack in the plateau that ran diagonally into the ravine they followed. Will Reilly took Val by the hand and climbed down into this smaller ravine. Under an overhang was a small stone hut.

  Lifting the latch, Will went in, and Val followed. The place was snug and tight. There was a fireplace and a stack of wood sufficient to last for days, for the hut was built against the cliff, and the overhang was deep enough for a storage place for fuel.

  “How did you know about this place?” Val asked.

  For a moment that Irish smile came over Will Reilly’s face. “I listen, Val, as I have taught you to do, and sometimes I cultivate strange company. You might wonder why, but I’ve learned always to keep one hand on the door latch, mentally, at least.

  “There are smugglers’ caves and hideouts all over the mountains. You see, we’re near the meeting place of three borders here, Austria, Italy, and Switzerland, and smuggling can be profitable.”

  He built a fire. He was quick and sure, as always, and his fire flared up with the first match.

  “I’ve brought some tea. We’ll have tea and then we’ll bathe our feet and wash out our socks. That’s the first thing on a long walk, boy. Keep your feet happy, and a change of socks will help.”

  They started off again before daybreak, and it was piercing cold. They struggled against the wind, but after a while it began to let up and snow began to fall. After an hour of that they could scarcely see. In any event, their tracks were covered. During lulls in the storm they could catch glimpses of a vast sweep of peaks, some looming amazingly near, some far off.

  *

  MANY TIMES IN the years that followed Val tried to reconstruct that escape from Austria. They branched off at the head of the Venter and went west of the mountain, into Italy. They went through small villages—villages they did not know the names of—and passed a fourteenth-century castle; then over a steep pass, and they were in Switzerland. It was footpaths and dim trails most of the way.

  After that there was Zurich…Paris…London—and New York.…

  Will Reilly was never quite the same again, and he had never quite forgotten Louise.

  He was colder, harder, and he laughed less often. He kept Val with him, and they were just as close; they talked of books, they went riding and shooting together. Will Reilly gambled, and he led a gambler’s life, and over the next few years he paid attention to a dozen women with the casual ease that was typical of him, but he was serious about none of them.

  When Val was fourteen they parted for the first time, when Val hired on at a cattle ranch in Texas. It was hard, grueling work, but he loved it, working from sunup to sundown, with only occasional rides into town. Will was operating a gambling house in New Orleans, but after six months he sold out and rode west to Texas.

  Val was now a tall boy, broad in the shoulders and strong in the hands. Fantastically quick with a gun, he had never drawn one in a gun battle; expert with cards, he cared nothing for gambling.

  “It’s good to see you, Val,” Will said when he saw him. He looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re growing up, boy.”

  With Will there, it took little urging for Val to quit his job, and with a pack horse they started riding west to San Antonio. As they rode, Will kept watching their back trail. He was silent for a long time, but after a while he said, “They’re hunting me, Val.”

  “Who is?”

  “That’s the hell of it. I don’t know.”

  That night in the Variety, Will told him more. “Somebody took a shot at me in New Orleans. They missed. Two days later they tried it again, and they missed again.…I didn’t.”

  “You got him?”

  “I killed a man I had never seen before, and you know that I never forget a face. I would swear I never ran across him anywhere, let alone gambled with him.”

  “Mistaken identity.”

  “No…it was me he wanted. He lived long enough to say that they hadn’t told him I could shoot.”

  “They?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “So it’s over?”

  “No. Two weeks later they tried again, while I was in a card game. They burned me that time, and they got away.”

  “They?”

  “There were two of them.” Will Reilly rubbed a hand over his face. “So I quit. I sold out and drifted west. How can a man gamble when somebody he doesn’t know is shooting at him? If you have an enemy you know it, and you know him; and if it is a matter of shooting, you shoot. This is different. Anyone who walks in the door may be the one, and they can’t all miss.”

  Val had never seen Will Reilly worried before, but to sit in a gambling game knowing that any one of the players, or any bystander, may be there to kill you…well, how do you concentrate on your cards?

  From San Antonio they drifted to the German settlements around Fredericksburg. They camped three nights on the Pedernales to see if there was any pursuit. When none appeared, they rode to Fort Griffin. There, in a poker game, Will Reilly won sixty dollars, and Val won twenty at handwrestling. Although still only a boy, he had an unusually powerful grip, and had the arms, shoulders, and chest of a grown man.

  They rode the grub line west, and then they hired two wagons and four skinners and went up the Canadian to hunt buffalo. As both of them were dead shots, they did well. They followed the buffalo with a few other hunters, banding together for protection against the Indians. A tall young man named Garrett was one of them, and he was a good shot with a rifle.

  Val, who had a
natural aptitude for weapons, and who had done a lot of shooting, killed nine buffalo at his first stand, eleven at his second. When the herd became nervous he stopped shooting for a few minutes to let them get over their uneasiness.

  He had made his stand near a buffalo wallow where the buffalo were scattered over the grassy plain below. He waited, enjoying the warm sun after the cool of the night, and watching the huge, shaggy beasts grazing.

  Will Reilly was half a mile away at the other corner of a triangle of which the apex was their wagons. Suddenly a rider appeared, a tall man with long flowing hair to his shoulders, riding a magnificent black horse.

  “How are you, boy?” He glanced over the terrain. “You have a nice stand here. Why aren’t you shooting?”

  “I’m letting them get settled down. They were in half a mind to stampede.”

  The man studied him thoughtfully. “Nice rifle you have there. May I see it?”

  “No, sir. I never let anybody look at my guns.”

  The man smiled. “Are you Will Reilly’s boy? I heard he was out here.”

  Val got to his feet slowly, and the tall man noted how the boy wore his gun, and the stance he took.

  “Will Reilly might be around. Who should I say is looking for him?”

  “You tell him Bill Hickok wants to talk to him.”

  Val studied the man. Hickok was a friend of Will’s, he knew. In fact, Will had loaned him a horse one time when he had been badly in need of one.

  “Mr. Hickok,” Val said, “Will said you were a good friend of his, so I take that as truth, but if you’ve become one of those hunting him, you’d better know you’ll have two of us to face.”

  Hickok looked at Val for a moment, then he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I came to warn him. Will Reilly was a friend to me when a friend was needed, and I hoped to return the favor. There are three men over on the Arkansas, and they are hunting him.”

  “We’ll ride over and talk to Will,” Val said.

  Will Reilly left his buffalo stand and came to meet them and he listened while Hickok told him the news. “One of them is Henry Sonnenberg,” Hickok said. “He said he’d know you when he sees you.”

  “And the others?”

  “Thurston Peck and Chip Hardesty. But don’t underrate Sonnenberg. He’s been building a reputation out in the Nevada gold camps. He killed some stranger out at Ruby Creek stage station, and another one in Pioche.”

  After a short silence Will Reilly said, “Bill, I’ve got a favor to ask. If you can, without stirring up trouble for yourself, find out who is back of this. They’re being paid, and I want to know who is doing the paying.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea. That’s what makes it so bad.”

  They rode back to camp, put coffee on the fire, and started stirring up some grub. The skinners were still out.

  After they had eaten, and Hickok and Will were lighting cigars, Wild Bill looked over the match at Will. “Do you know a man named Avery Simpson?”

  “Should I?”

  “He was in Wichita for a few days, then traveled to Hays. I understand he has ten thousand dollars to be paid to the person who kills you…no matter how.”

  Will Reilly just stared at him. Val got up to bring more fuel for the fire. When he had put the buffalo chips on the flames, he said, “Maybe we ought to look him up and ask why?”

  “Yes,” Will said. “The hell of it is knowing that anybody may try to shoot or knife or poison you, and not even knowing why.”

  “Want me to talk to him, Will?” Hickok asked.

  Reilly smiled, without humor. “I’ll admit, Bill, that this business is getting under my skin, but not that much. I can still fork my own broncs.”

  “Of course.” Hickok leaned back on his elbow. “Don’t forget Sonnenberg while you’re looking for this man Simpson. From what I hear, Sonnenberg is a sure-thing operator. If I was you I’d shoot on sight.”

  Bill Hickok stayed the night with them and rode on in the morning. That was the first and last time Val ever saw him. The next morning they rode out, too. Only this time they rode east, and then north.

  Val and Will rode into Hays on a frosty morning, and went to the hotel to make inquiries. Avery Simpson had checked out, leaving as a forwarding address the Peck House, in Empire, Colorado.

  “All right,” Will said quietly, “we’ll go to Empire and find out what Avery Simpson has to say for himself.”

  Val walked to the window. There was a terrible sense of foreboding in him. Why did Avery Simpson want to have Will Reilly killed?

  And did he want to kill Val too?

  Chapter 7

  *

  THE PECKS HAD arrived in Empire with considerable means, and over the years they had enlarged their house, imported furniture from the East, and lived in a degree of comfort known to few in, the mining regions. For nine or ten years they entertained travelers, known or unknown to them, until bad times came to the country and the Pecks turned to entertaining for a small charge.

  The Peck home, always the center for everything in that part of Colorado, had now become a hotel, and it was there that Will Reilly and Val arrived late one evening.

  A fire was blazing on the hearth, for the night was cool. It was a pleasant room, and after the chill of the long ride on the stage it felt comfortable.

  Val looked around the room thoughtfully. He saw a young girl, perhaps younger than himself, and there was a man, obviously an easterner, who sat in a big leather chair reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar.

  The girl was small, with large eyes, and was very pretty. Val went over to her. “Do you live here?” he asked.

  “No.” She looked at him with interest. “Do you?”

  “We travel,” Val said. “In this country—and we spent a year in Europe.”

  “I’ve never been there, but I will be going, one of these days.”

  “I’m Val Darrant,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Maude Kiskadden.” Her chin lifted proudly. “I am an actress.”

  “An actress?”

  “Yes, I am. So is my mother.”

  Will Reilly had come up to them. “How do you do?” he said, offering his hand. “I am Val’s uncle. Did you say your father’s name was Kiskadden?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew a Kiskadden up in Montana. In Virginia City.”

  “That was my father.”

  Will Reilly looked at her curiously. “Your mother was named Virginia? Who used to be married to Joe Slade?”

  “No, sir. My mother is named Annie. She’s an actress.”

  “Sorry. I guess Kiskadden must have married again.” He glanced around the room, then his eyes came back to her. “Are there many people stopping here?”

  “Only four. There’s my mother and me, and there is a mining man from Denver, and some easterner.”

  “I had expected more.…This easterner now—can you describe him?”

  “He is a tall blond man, sort of heavy. He smiles a lot, but I don’t like him,” Maude Kiskadden said.

  Val watched Will Reilly go up the stairs, his face serious. Two hours later, at the supper table, they saw Avery Simpson for the first time.

  He came into the dining room after Will and Val were already seated. The Kiskaddens were there too, and Simpson nodded to them, then seated himself at a table at one side of the room and lighted a cigar before opening his paper.

  Will Reilly got up. “Excuse me a minute, Val. I will be right back.”

  He crossed the room to Simpson’s table. “Mr. Avery Simpson, I believe?” Will drew back a chair and sat down.

  Simpson took the cigar from his mouth and looked at Reilly. “Do I know you?”

  “Apparently you do not, or you would be a wiser man.”

  “What does that mean?” Simpson asked.

  “I understand you have been offering ten thousand dollars to have me killed. I am Will Reilly.”

  The cigar almost dropped
from Simpson’s lips, and he fumbled for it. His face had gone white. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

  “You know perfectly well, Mr. Simpson, but if you are carrying a gun, you may call me a liar.”

  “I did not say that. I did not call you a liar.”

  “Then what I have said is the truth? You have been offering ten thousand dollars for my scalp?”

  Avery Simpson was frightened, but he hesitated. There were at least seven witnesses in the room, and all of them were listening. The man across the table was cool, even casual, but suddenly, desperately, Simpson wished himself far away.

  “Well, I—”

  “If I am not a liar, Mr. Simpson, you have offered ten thousand dollars for my death. Am I a liar, Mr. Simpson?”

  “No. No, no.”

  “Then you have offered that sum?”

  “Yes.”

  Never in his wildest imaginings had Avery Simpson expected to be confronted with such a situation. From all he had heard, this man across the table had killed other men, and was quite capable of killing him. He waited, his mouth dry, cold sweat beading his forehead.

  “Mr. Simpson, as of this moment I want you to revoke your offer. I want an item published in the press in Denver, El Paso, Tucson, and in other papers in a list I shall submit to you, revoking your offers. You need not mention what offer, just that any offers you have made are revoked and no money is to be paid to anyone for any offer previously made. When you have written those letters in my presence, and mailed them, you may leave town. You may go back to where you came from, and if you appear in the West at any future time, for whatever reason, I shall shoot you on sight.”

  Avery Simpson pushed back his chair. “I will. I will write the letters now.”

  “That is correct. However, you will not need to leave the table. I will see that paper is brought, and you may write the letters here and now. At this table.”

  Simpson licked his dry lips and was about to protest, but thought better of it.

  “You know, of course, that I could shoot you right now and no western jury would ever convict me. You have tried to buy my death.” Will Reilly smiled pleasantly.