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

  The American bent and retrieved the bottle from the floor. “And we did not break the wine.”

  Talleyrand glanced at the bodies of the two men. “It would be just as well if we went to some other place. There’ll be trouble here soon.”

  “Monsieur?”

  Talleyrand turned to face the American. “Yes?”

  “If you will take the advice of one who is gone from his own country—go back to France. If that is not politically possible now, then go back when you can, as soon as you can. Believe me, monsieur, far better than any other, I know there is no country like one’s own, and you will not be happy serving another.”

  “It is good advice, but now we go to America. Could you give me letters of introduction to someone there? It would be a great favor.”

  The American shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry, that I cannot do. I am perhaps the only American who cannot.”

  Their eyes held. Talleyrand hesitated. “Then, your name, sir? You can tell me that.”

  The American stiffened. His face was resigned and cold with pride and tragedy. “My name is Benedict Arnold.”

  Crash Landing

  Dyea was the first to speak. “Don’t anyone move.” His voice was quiet, and its very calm destroyed the moment of rising panic. “The plane seems to be resting insecurely, we must act carefully and with intelligence. I will investigate.”

  With infinite care, he straightened himself from his seat, glancing briefly at the wreckage of the nose. There was no possibility that pilot or co-pilot were alive. The stewardess was sitting in the aisle, where she had been thrown by the crash. She looked toward him uncertainly.

  “Miss Taylor,” he said, recalling her name from the tab above her breast pocket, “I was an officer in the Army, and I have some experience with this sort of thing. If all will cooperate, I’m sure we will be all right.”

  He could see the relief in her eyes, and she nodded quickly. “Sit still,” he said, before she could rise. “I’ll only be a moment. The plane is resting, I believe, on a mountainside. Its position seems to be precarious.”

  The crashed commuter plane lay on the mountain, and could be no more than a dozen feet from the crest of the ridge. Balancing his weight, his body leaning against the slant, he eased down the incline to the door in the back of the cabin. Fortunately, it had not jammed. The wind, which had been blowing hard, seemed to have lulled, and he stepped carefully from the door.

  Snow swirled around him as he took a few steps back, along the fuselage, and then he looked down into an awful void that dropped away beneath the very tail of the plane. For a long moment he stared, awed by what he could sense rather than see. The slightest gust of wind or concerted movement could start the ship sliding, and in an instant it would fall off into the black void.

  Yet, where he stood, the rock was solid, covered only by a thin coating of ice and snow blown by the wind. Moving carefully, he checked the position of the cliff edge and the area nearest the crashed plane. Then he returned to the door.

  Dyea stood outside and looked within. Five faces had turned to stare at him. “You must move one at a time, and at my direction. The ship is in an extremely dangerous position. If there is any confusion or hurry, it may start sliding. You, in the right front seat, rise carefully. If you’re not sure you can move under your own power, please tell me now.”

  A voice came from that seat where no face showed. “I cannot move. You must all go first.”

  “Thank you.” Dyea looked at a fat man who clutched a briefcase and was near the door. “You, sir, will begin. Rise carefully and cross to the door. Bring your blanket with you. Be sure the blanket will catch on nothing.”

  As if hypnotized, the man rose from his seat. Patiently, he gathered the blanket, and with extreme economy of movement, he folded it; then, with the blanket under his arm, he moved to the door. As he stepped to the snow, Dyea pointed. “Walk ten steps forward, then three to the left. There is a rock there that will protect us from the wind.”

  The man moved away, and Dyea turned to the next person. Only when the five who were capable of moving had been removed from the plane did Dyea look to the hostess. “Miss Taylor, get to your feet,” he said, “move carefully and gather all the remaining blankets and pass them to me.”

  “What about this man?” She indicated the seat from which the voice had come.

  “He must wait. All our lives are in danger. Free of the plane, they may still die of cold and exposure. We must think first of the greatest number. Furthermore,” he added, “the gentleman’s courage has already been demonstrated.

  “When you’ve given me all the blankets and coats, get your first aid kit and as much food as you can. Move very carefully and slowly. The ship is resting upon the very lip of a cliff that looks to be more than six hundred feet high.”

  As the stewardess began her collecting of blankets, Dyea looked toward the seat back where the remaining occupant sat. “My friend, moving you is going to be extremely dangerous. Do not suggest that we shouldn’t attempt it, for we shall. However, I’ll move you myself. Miss Taylor will be out of the ship at the time. We may both die. Therefore, think of any message you may want to send to anyone who survives you. Also, if there is any identification, pass it to the stewardess.”

  “And you?” The voice from the seat was calm, yet seemed tightly held against some pain, or fear. “What of you?”

  “There is no one,” Dyea said quietly, “I am a man alone.”

  Steadily, the stewardess made her trips; a dozen blankets, food, then medicine. One of the men appeared out of the darkness and accepted an armful of blankets. “One per person,” Dyea said to him, “then a second as far as they go. The same for the coats. Then move this food and the medicine kit into the shelter.”

  “May I help?” the man asked, nodding toward the plane.

  “Thank you, no. The added weight and movement would only increase the risk.” He turned toward the stewardess. “Are any others alive?”

  She looked into several of the seats, then stopped at one where he saw only a thin hand. “Yes, this girl is alive!”

  “Good. We will proceed as planned. Come out.”

  Miss Taylor tiptoed carefully to the door and stepped out into the snow. Dyea turned to her, and she saw his strong, harshly cut face in the glow of the moon.

  “If the plane carries us away,” he advised, “you will keep these people huddled together until daylight.” He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. “It is now three o’clock in the morning. It will begin to grow light shortly after six, possibly a little before. When it has become gray, make a stretcher of a couple of coats, load anyone who may not be able to walk, and move eastward along the ridge.

  “When you’ve gone perhaps a quarter of a mile, away from this precipice, angle down the mountain toward the trees. Once there, build a fire and build a shelter. You have matches?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I’ll move the injured man first.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No. Please don’t.” Dyea’s voice was flat. “Now,” he lifted his voice to the man in the plane, “your name and address, please? And any message for the stewardess?”

  There was a moment of silence. “I am Victor Barclay, of Barclay and Paden, attorneys. My wife and children are living in Brentwood, California.” He hesitated. “Only my love to them.”

  Miss Taylor turned her dark, serious eyes to the big man beside her. “And you, sir?”

  “No message,” Dyea said.

  “Your name?”

  “It does not matter.”

  “But isn’t there someone?”

  “No.”

  “I would like to know.”

  He smiled. She saw it clearly in the moonlight. The dark seriousness of his face changed. “My name is Dyea. Spelled D-Y-E-A. My family pronounced it dee-ah, the accent on the first syllable.”

  He hunched his shoulders against the cold. “Go
now. Stay clear of the plane. I believe the wings are both gone, but some part might be under the snow and might drag you over. The rock will give you shelter.”

  When the woman was gone, Dyea stepped into the ship. With the decrease of weight, the situation was even more precarious. He walked carefully to the seated man. A blanket was over his legs, but obviously, both were broken. No other injuries were apparent. “All right, Barclay,” Dyea said, “I’m going to pick you up. It may hurt like the devil. Despite that, you must hold yourself very still. If you move, you’ll overbalance me on this incline and I’ll fall. A fall would start the plane sliding.”

  “Very well. I’m ready.”

  Dyea’s eyes flickered for the first time. He looked down the plane toward the tail, then at the door. He touched his lips with his tongue and, setting his feet carefully, stooped and picked up the injured man. As he straightened, he felt a sickening sensation of movement beneath him. He stood stock-still, holding the lawyer as if he were a child. The movement stopped with a faint grating sound; turning, Dyea took his first step. As he put down his foot with the combined weight of nearly four hundred pounds, he felt the ship shift beneath him. A queer sensation went up his spine, such a feeling as he had known but once before, when ice cracked beneath his feet out on a lake, a half mile from shore.

  He took another step. There was no further movement, and he climbed down into the snow and walked over to the dark huddle of figures waiting in the lee of the rock.

  Placing the lawyer on a coat spread out for him, Dyea straightened. “I think both thighs are fractured. I did not examine him. Possibly the lower part of the left leg, also. Keep him very warm and set the legs if you can.”

  Barclay looked up through the sifting flakes. His eyes were large with pain. “Don’t go back,” he said, “that little girl may not be alive by now.”

  “She was unconscious,” Miss Taylor said.

  “It’s no matter. I’m going back.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man!” Barclay burst out. “That plane almost went with us. It won’t stand any more moving around. You know it and I know it. There’s no use losing two lives when the one may go anyway.”

  Dyea did not reply. He turned, chafing his hands together. Then he walked quietly and stopped beside the plane. He looked around him, feeling the bitter cold for the first time. Then he glanced back to where the survivors were gathered, obscured by the swirling snow. The wind was rising. It would be a bitter night and a miserable tomorrow. Rescue parties might be days in coming but, with luck, the group could survive.

  He balked at the door, and the thought that the girl must be dead by now flashed through his mind. Maybe, but probably not. He knew that was his fear of returning to the plane sneaking up on him. He shook his head and chuckled. The sound of it revived him, and he put a hand on each side of the plane door, a foot on the edge.

  He stepped inside the plane and moved, gently as possible, to the girl’s seat. As he bent to look at her, she opened her eyes and looked right into his.

  “Don’t move,” he said, “there has been an accident.”

  She looked at him very carefully, at his eyes, his face, and his hair. In the plane, the moonlight shone through the windows, bright between scudding clouds. “I know,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “It does not matter. Think of this. Several of the passengers were killed, but six have been removed and are safe. If you and I can get out, we will be safe, too, and we’re the last.”

  Her eyes were wide and gray. They bothered him, somehow. They reminded him of other eyes. “Where are we?”

  “On a very high mountain. It is very cold and the wind is blowing hard. We’re on the edge of a high cliff. When I pick you up, the plane may slip. It did with the last person I carried, but he was very heavy. So you must hold very still.”

  “Maybe I can walk. Let me try.”

  “No. If you stumbled or fell, the shock would start us moving. I must carry you.”

  “You’re very brave.”

  “No, I’m not. Right now I’m scared. My stomach feels empty and my mouth is dry. I’ll bet yours is, too, isn’t it?”

  “You’re risking your life for me.”

  “You’re a romantic child. And believe me, the risk is much less than you might suppose.”

  He had been on one knee, talking to her. Now he slid an arm beneath her legs and another around her body, under her arms. An arm slid trustfully around his neck and he got carefully to his feet. After Barclay’s weight, she seemed very light. He stood still, looking toward the door. It was seven steps, every step an increasing danger.

  She looked toward the door, too, then at him. “Isn’t it strange? I’m not afraid anymore.”

  “I wish I could say I wasn’t.”

  He took his first step, placing his foot down carefully, then, shifting his weight, he swung the other leg. Then the right and again the left. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath, looked at the black rectangle of the door, then took another step. As if moved by the added weight, the ship quivered slightly. The movement was only a tremor, but Dyea immediately stepped again, and then again.

  Under his feet the plane started to move, and he knew that this time it was going all the way. He lunged at the door and shoved the girl out into the snow. He saw her land, sprawling. The nose of the plane was sliding down while the tail held almost still, the body rotating. Fortunately, it was swinging in an arc opposite from where the girl had fallen. Then the whole plane slid in one section over the edge of the cliff. As it fell free, Dyea, with one agonized, fear-driven snap of his muscles, sprang upward and outward into the blackness and swirling snow.

  There was one awful instant when, hands spread high and wide, he seemed to be hanging in space. He hit a steep slope partially covered with snow. He slid, then felt his lower body going over…he clutched, grabbing a fingerhold just as he began to fall. His arms gave a frightful jerk but he held himself, swinging in black, swirling snow over a vast, cold emptiness.

  The moon emerged from under a cloud, and he started upward. He was no more than four feet below the edge, the cliff before him not as sheer as he’d thought. The brow sloped steeply back, and on the very edge was the girl, peering over at him.

  “I’ll get help,” she said.

  “No.” He knew his fingers would not retain their hold. “Can you brace yourself against something? Can your heels dig in?”

  She glanced around, then nodded. “Then slip out of your coat and lower the end toward me. Hang on tight, but if you feel yourself going, just let go.”

  His fingers were slipping in their icy crack, already so numb he could scarcely feel them. Snow swirled in his face and the wind whipped at his mouth, stealing his breath away. He gasped, then the coat slapped him in the face. He let go with one hand and swung it around and up, grasping the suede coat. He felt the weight hit her, but she held it. Carefully, he drew himself up, hand over hand. When his feet were in the crack where his fingers had been, he climbed over and lay beside her in the snow.

  “I never was an Army officer,” he whispered. “I never was anything.”

  His arm was stretched out and his cuff pulled back. He could see the dial on his watch. It was just eleven minutes past three.

  With These Hands

  He sat bolt upright in his seat, hands clasped in his lap, eyes fixed in an unseeing stare upon the crushed shambles of the forward part of the plane. His mind without focus, fixed in the awful rigidity of shock.

  Awareness returned slowly, and with it a consciousness of cold. Not a shivering cold, not even the icy edge of a cutting wind, but the immense and awful cold of a land of ice, of a land beyond the sun. Of frigid, unending miles lying numb and still under the dead hand of the Arctic.

  No movement…no life. No sound of people, no hum of motors, no ticking of clocks; only silence and the long white miles where the lonely wind prowled and whispered to the snow.

  He had survived. He alone had survived. That thought isolated its
elf in his consciousness and with it came the dread of living again, the dread of the necessity for struggle.

  Yet he need not struggle. He could die. He need only sit still until the anesthesia of shock merged without pain into the anesthesia of death. He need only remain still. He need only wait…wait and let the cold creep in. Once he moved the icy spell would be broken and then he must move again.

  He was alive. He tried to shut away the thought and find some quiet place in his brain where he could stuff his ears and wait for death. But the thought had seeped into consciousness, and with it, consciousness of cold.

  It was a cold where nails break sharply off when struck with a hammer; a cold where breath freezes and crackles like miniature firecrackers; a cold that drove needles of ice into his nose and throat…there was no anesthesia, no quiet slipping away, this cold would be a flaying, torturing death.

  Icy particles rattled against the hull of the plane; a wind sifted flakes across the hair of the sitting dead. Of them all, he alone had survived. Curtis who had believed so much in luck, Allen who had drilled for oil in the most inhospitable deserts and oceans of the world, of the seven men returning to Prudhoe Bay, he alone had survived.

  He slumped in his seat.

  That was it. He had moved. To live he must move again, he must act. What could he do? Where could he go? Outside lay the flat sweep of a snow-clad plain and beyond the dark edge of forest, black and sullen under a flat gray sky.

  Movement had broken the rigidity of shock. With that break came the realization; there must be no panic, for panic was the little brother of death.

  “Sit still,” he said aloud, “you’ve got to think.”

  If he was to survive it must be by thinking. To think before he moved and then to waste no movement. This power had enabled men to survive. Reason, that ability to profit by experience and not only from their own meager experience, but from the experience of others. That was the secret of man’s dominance, of his very survival, for he not only had learned how to control heat, flood, and wind, but how to transmit to future generations the knowledge of harsh experience.