Reilly's Luck

by Louis L'Amour

  He got to his feet, his features set and hard. “We do, Mrs. Fossett. I shall have a report for you within the week.”

  When he had gone, Myra Fossett sat staring straight before her into the darkening room. She had told the truth and she had lied, at one and the same time. Information she wanted, but only in part for business reasons, and in part only for the malicious satisfaction of knowing the secret lives of her associates. Knowledge was indeed power, but it was for her more than a weapon, for it fed her contempt for the men with whom she associated and for the sheep who were their wives.

  The information she required about Van was for an altogether different reason. For twenty years he had been a part of her life, and there was little in those twenty years that he did not know or suspect. When he had suddenly broken with her and run away, she had been furious, both with him and with herself for not recognizing the signs. The trouble was that he had threatened to leave so many times that she no longer believed him.

  He had become necessary to her, for exactly what reasons she did not venture to ask herself. He was, even yet, a fine-looking man, acceptable in any company; and although a drinker, he had never yet allowed it to show in company to any degree more than dozens of others whom they met at one time or another. She had no intention of letting him leave when he wished, but she had already recognized the fact that a time was coming when he would be more of a handicap than an asset. To be realistic, that time had arrived.

  Had he guessed her intentions? He might have suspected. Certainly, he knew enough about others who had gotten in her way. She remembered a day long ago when he had been just drunk enough to speak out, and he had told her in that curiously speculative way he had of talking when drunk, “Myra, you are a moral cripple. I mean it. Just as some people are born with physical defects, you were born with a moral defect. You have no conception of right and wrong. Things are good or bad as they serve your purpose or do not serve it.”

  Val? It was impossible, of course. Val was dead. He had died out there in the night and the cold after Van had abandoned him …

  She had never believed Van would have the guts for it. She had been surprised when he returned without the boy, but when he had suggested they leave at once, she thought that he might really have done it. And Van had never referred to Val again, never mentioned him even once, so he must have left him to die.

  But suppose he had not? Where could he have taken the boy? Where might he have left him? All she had now was that twenty years later Van met somebody who might be twenty-five years old and called him Val … or perhaps something that sounded like that. This person, whoever he was, might have given Van money; might have talked him into going home.

  If so, what did it mean to her? It could mean everything, or nothing. Van close to her, under her thumb, frightened of her, was one thing. Van free of her, back with his own family … would he want to forget all that lay behind? Or would he have an attack of conscience?

  Myra Fossett, who now had wealth and power and was close to the position she craved, could not afford Van’s conscience. He simply knew too much. A Van Clevern who seemed to be headed down into the gutter was no danger, but a Van Clevern back with his family, that self-righteous family of which she had heard so much, was a very real danger. One minute or two of talking on his part could destroy everything she had so carefully built.

  He even knew about Everett Fossett, or suspected. And Everett had friends and perhaps relatives of whom she knew nothing who might start an investigation.

  She considered the question coolly and made her decision about Van Clevern. Of course, she admitted, that decision had really been made a long time ago, but then he had been useful to her.

  It would have to be an accident. There would be no chance for poison in this case.

  She considered the others. It had worked well with them. Seven men and two women, and each one had been a step toward the success she wanted. It had been poison with all but one, and that one was knocked on the head when he started to wake up, and was left out in the mule corral. Van still believed he was covering something that could be called an accident, that she had hit harder than she wished.

  Val … Could it be that she had a son still alive?

  She had never wanted the child, had planned it merely as a trap for Darrant, and he had gotten away from her before she could spring the trap. And then she was saddled with a child.

  But now she was curious … did he look like her? Or like … what was his name?

  Andy … that was it. For Andrew, she supposed, or possibly Andre, considering the fact that he was partly French.

  Val … suppose he really was alive? What then? What difference could it make?

  Van had always had a weakness for the child, and Van might talk too much … no, he wouldn’t. Not to Val. Yet Van might tell him where she was, who she was, and Val might come to her for money.

  Scarcely a week had gone by when Pinkerton’s report was on her desk.

  The young man’s name was Valentine Darrant … so her son was alive … he had read law with the firm of Lawton, Bryce & Kelly … a good firm … had been admitted to the bar. Seemed to have come from the West. Had worked for Steven Bricker … that tall young, man she had passed in the doorway … a young man of very definite ability who seemed to know many people of doubtful reputation … maybe he did take after her … spent much time in shooting galleries, never played cards, rarely gambled except an occasional friendly wager on some fact of sports or history. Went often to the theater and the opera, well-educated, but nothing known as to his academic background.

  It was little enough, and left a number of questions unanswered. Where had he been during the intervening years? Who had reared him? Who had given him his education? How long had Van known him?

  Myra glanced at the report again. The last line told her that Val had left town. He had bought a ticket for St. Louis.

  Well, enough of that. Now there was the problem of what to do about Van Clevern.

  Nevertheless, she found herself beset by a nagging curiosity: What was her son like? Was he like her? Or like Darrant?

  For Darrant she had a grudging respect. He had had sense enough to get away while the getting was good, and not many had done that, not before she had bled them dry.

  Some people said a child took after his grandparents. She had no idea what Darrant’s family had been like, but for her own she had only contempt. They had been good, God-fearing people by contemporary standards, and her father had done well in a limited way. Well, no matter.

  Van Clevern had indeed returned home. He had taken a little while to get himself looking presentable. He had stopped drinking, had eaten regular meals, had caught up on his sleep. And as Val had said, his family were glad to see him, and they asked few questions. If they did ask he had a story to tell them. He had been involved in mining deals out west. He had made money, lost it, and now was planning to find a local connection and stay home … Only at times did he think of Myra, and uneasily wondered what she would do.

  He shook off his doubts, doubts brought on by an all too clear memory of her fury at being thwarted, of her ruthless, relentless nature. But then, he told himself, she would be glad to be rid of him.

  Slowly, his manner changed. He became more confident, and began to pick up old associations. It was discovered that he had acquired a lot of information about mining and railroad stocks, and possessed a good deal of on-the-spot information. Three weeks after his return he was hired as a consultant by an investment house in which his father was a partner.

  By the time two months had gone by he had proved himself worthwhile to the firm. He met people easily, and his knowledge—much of it acquired from Myra—was proving of value.

  Another month passed, and Van Clevern had obtained several new accounts for the firm, so it was with a distinct shock and sorrow that they heard of his death.

  He had been riding in the park on a Sunday morning, and had evidently been thrown from his hors
e. His skull was badly shattered and he had been dead for at least an hour when they found him.

  Val Darrant, stopping at Knight’s ranch, in New Mexico, read a brief notice of the death in a newspaper somebody had left at the ranch. It was a Chicago paper, several weeks old, and the item was a small one, on an inside page; it gave only the barest details.

  Val put the paper down and sat hack in his chair, a curious emptiness within him. Of all those whom he had known, next to Will Reilly himself, he had loved Van Clevern the most.

  A weak man, but one who had been kind, who had taken time to talk to a small boy when nobody else so much as noticed him, and who had saved him from death.

  And now he was dead. An accident, they said.

  As to that, Val was not so sure. Van had been an excellent horseman, often riding the half-broken mustangs of the western country. It seemed unlikely he would be thrown by any rented-out horse in an eastern state. It could be, but it was unlikely.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Val Darrant had no liking for open country, and a good stretch of it lay before him. Beyond it the Burro Mountains bulked strong against the sky. He drew rein at the mouth of an arroyo and studied the terrain before him.

  He had a feeling that he had glimpsed a faint cloud of dust only minutes before, but now, with a full view of the plain, he saw nothing. He touched his Winchester to be sure it was not jammed too deeply into the scabbard, and then touched his heels to the buckskin.

  The gelding was a good horse with black mane and tail and just a suggestion of black spots on the left shoulder, as if there might have been some appaloosa strain somewhere in the buckskin’s past. It was a strong horse with a good gait, mountain-and desert-bred.

  The country ahead looked innocent enough, but he stayed where he was, knowing that to trust innocence too much could lead to trouble.

  He had ridden the stage from the little village of Los Angeles to Yuma and thence to Tucson.

  He had believed he’d had enough of the West, but now he was singing a different song. He now knew this was the country for him. No matter how far he might travel, he would always come back here. He was riding now for Silver City, then across country to Tascosa and to the ranch below the cap-rock.

  Suddenly, he heard the soft beat of horse’s hoofs behind him.

  He turned his mount and waited. It was one rider, on a shod horse. This ride from Tucson had been enough to get his eyes and ears tuned to the western lands again. He waited …

  The horse was gray, with a black mane and tail, the rider a slender young man wearing a battered black hat, his hair down to his shoulders.

  “If you’re riding east,” Val said, “I’d be glad of the company.”

  He was a good-looking young man, almost too good-looking, except for two prominent teeth. They did not disfigure him, but did mark his appearance. He weighed not more than a compact one-fifty, and he was probably about five-eight. His hair was blond, his eyes gray.

  “Ridin’ east myself,” he said. “You alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Val looked at him. “Say, now I know you. You’re Billy Antrim.”

  The rider rolled a smoke and glanced at him quizzically. “It’s been a while since I been called that, but come to think of it, you do look familiar.”

  “Your mother ran the boarding house in Silver City. I came into town traveling with Will Reilly. Remember? You, Dobie, and I took a ride into the hills a couple of times. We swapped yarns, too.”

  “Sure, I recall. Where you been all the time?”

  “Drifting,” Val said. “Will’s dead. He was killed up in Colorado a few years ago.”

  “Heard about it. The way I heard it he was shot from the dark. Never had a chance.”

  “That’s right. It was Henry Sonnenberg, Hardesty, and Thurston Pike.”

  “I heard that, too. Sonnenberg was in Fort Sumner a couple of years ago. Hardesty’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  Billy looked at him quickly. “Say! You were the one who got him! Over at some ranch in Texas.”

  “In town. He wasn’t much.”

  They rode for several miles, both watching the country, and suddenly Val said, “You mentioned that nobody ever called you Billy Antrim any more. Knight’s Ranch is up ahead, and maybe I should know what to call you.”

  Billy looked at him. “My name’s Bonney,” he said. “They call me the Kid.”

  It was a name on everybody’s lips. Even the eastern newspapers knew about Billy the Kid and the Lincoln County War.

  “Are you all right at Knight’s? If you aren’t, I’ll ride in and buy whatever you need.”

  “They’re good people. They know I am wanted, but I never trouble them and they don’t trouble me. Anyway,” Billy added, “so far as I know, only Pat Garrett is hunting me. The rest of them either don’t care, or they don’t want to borrow trouble.”

  Shadows were growing long, reaching out from the Burro Mountains ahead. The ranch lay in the mouth of the canyon of the same name, and had become a regular stop on the stage line. Richard S. Knight had built the fortlike adobe in 1874, and sold out a few years later to John Parks, who now operated the ranch.

  Val led the way into the ranch yard and Parks came out to meet them with two of his seven children. He glanced at Val.

  “Valentine Darrant, sir. I think you know Mr. Bonney.”

  “Yes, I do. How are you, Billy?”

  “Middlin’, Mr. Parks, just middlin’. But I’m shaping up to feel better when I’ve eaten some of your good grub.”

  “Too much of your own cooking, Billy?”

  The Kid laughed. “I’m not much of a hand at cookin’, Mr. Parks, not even when I have it to cook. I ain’t been close to food in three days.”

  “Go on inside. Ma will put something on for you.”

  Val swung down. “I’ll look after your horse, Billy. Go ahead.”

  He led the two horses to the water trough and let them drink, then to the corral, where he stripped the gear from them. Parks was pitching hay to his own stock.

  “You know Billy pretty well?” he asked.

  “We met a long time back. When his mother was boarding people over at Silver City. We played some together as boys.”

  “A lot has happened since then.”

  “I’ve heard some of it.” Val rested his hands on his buckskin’s back. “I like him. So far as I’ve heard, he’s done nothing his enemies weren’t doing, only he ended up by being outlawed and they didn’t.”

  “He’s stopped by here several times, and he’s always been a gentleman. Shall we go in?”

  After supper Val went outside and sat down on the steps. He felt a growing irritation with himself. He had a right to practice law, but he had done little of it, and then merely as an employee. He owned a part of a ranch which he would soon visit, but he had no taste for ranching. He had a good deal of experience with railroads and investments, but not enough to qualify him for the kind of a job he wanted, nor was he very interested in business.

  Here he felt at home. He liked the West, and he liked the drifting, but it was no use. Beyond every trail there were only more trails, and no man could ride them all. He had known a few girls in passing, but had never been in love. Within himself he felt a vast longing, a yearning for something more … he did not know what.

  He did not believe that anything was to be solved by killing, yet the memory that Thurston Pike and Henry Sonnenberg were still at large, and undoubtedly still involved in killing, nagged at his mind.

  Was he hoping that something would intervene? That somebody would do his job for him? When he remembered Sonnenberg he felt a kind of chill. He was a great brute of a man … he seemed invulnerable. Was he, Val Darrant, afraid of Sonnenberg?

  Yet Sonnenberg’s hand had only held the gun and squeezed the trigger. Equally to blame were Avery Simpson, who had traveled the West offering a price for a man’s life, and Prince Pavel, who had hired the killing done.

  Will Reilly would
have known what to do, and Will Reilly would have done it.

  Was that why he could settle down to nothing else? Was that what subconsciously worried him? Was it the feeling that he had left the murderers of his best friend, Will Reilly, unpunished?

  And what about his mother? What about the woman who now called herself Myra Fossett? Should he go to her and identify himself? To what purpose? He wanted nothing from her, and she had never shown any interest in him except to be rid of him.

  Billy came out and sat on the stoop beside him. “Nothing like a desert night,” he said. “I always liked riding at night.”

  “Where’s Sonnenberg now?”

  Billy turned his head and looked at him. “Don’t mess with him, Val. Not even if you’re good with a gun. He’s poison mean, and he’s fast—real fast. I wouldn’t want to tackle him myself.”

  “He was one of them.”

  “Forget it. Look where followin’ up an idea like that got me. After Tunstall was shot, well, I figured to get everyone of that crowd that done it. Well, we got several of them, and now the war’s over an’ everybody else is out of it but me.”

  “You didn’t tell me where Sonnenberg was.”

  “Reason is, I don’t know. Somebody said he was up Montana way.” Billy paused. “I know where Pike is, though.”

  “Where?”

  “If you’re goin’ back to that ranch of yours you’ll be pointing right at him. Last I heard he was in Tascosa. He’s got him a woman there.”

  “You going that way?”

  “No,” Billy said after a minute, “I think I’ll set for a spell. This here’s good grub, they’re nice folks, and I just think I’ll rest up a few days. It ain’t often I get a chance to rest these days.”

  “I’m pulling out, come daylight.” Val stood up. “So long, Billy, and good luck.”

  He went inside, and to bed. Before he got into bed, however, he checked his gun. It was the Smith & Wesson .44 Russian that Hickok had given him. He liked the balance of it, liked the feel.