Reilly's Luck

by Louis L'Amour

  “I know about him. He is an outlaw, a paid killer. Who hired him?”

  “That’s the odd part. Some jack-leg lawyer from here in town named Avery Simpson offered the money. I don’t know who it was who wanted Reilly killed. I suppose it was some gambling trouble. Men who live like that—”

  “You have talked to Simpson?”

  “No, but—”

  “Leave him to me.” She stood up, indicating the interview was over.

  “There’s one thing more … “

  She waited, impatient to be rid of him.

  “That man, Van Clevern. He was killed in a fall from a horse.”

  “Too bad.”

  She turned away sharply, her irritation showing, but he remained where he was, his eyes on her face. “I know you told us you were no longer interested in him, but one of my operatives … well, it tied in with Mr. Darrant.”

  “Yes?”

  “Van Clevern, shortly before he was killed, directed his family to mail a certain box—without opening it—to Valentine Darrant.”

  Myra took up a pen and turned it in her fingers. She was aware that Pinkerton was watching her, but she had to think. Such a box would certainly contain papers … what else could it be? And what papers would he be likely to be sending to Val? Something about Val’s mother.

  He might have written it all down, there at the last, leaving it up to Val to do with it as he wished.

  “This box … Val Darrant has it?”

  “No. It has been forwarded to a bank in Colorado to hold for him. Apparently they expect him soon because of some investments they have been handling for him.”

  There was still time then. She took the report from Pinkerton and watched him leave, but her mind was working swiftly. That box, described as a small metal chest or bond box, undoubtedly contained Van Clevern’s signed statement. With that statement they would have no trouble finding the evidence needed for a conviction, and Myra Fossett would be on trial for murder.

  Even if, by some chance, she was able to gain an acquittal, her whole life would have been exposed. She would be ruined …

  She picked up the report. The box had been shipped, but only just now. If she wanted to get the box she must act at once.

  A train holdup was too difficult to arrange, but after the train there would be the stage, and then the bank. She knew a dozen men who could handle either affair, but the name that came to her mind at once was Sonnenberg.

  Sonnenberg would have reason to want to get Val out of the way. He was a tough man, and as she knew from the old days, he was an experienced yeggman who knew all the tricks of cracking safes.

  For a long time she sat at her desk, considering the problem, but her thoughts returned again and again to Val.

  She had a son. What, after all, did that mean? She had given birth to a child she had never wanted, by a man she had never loved, and the child had failed to serve its purpose. At the time it had seemed the quickest road to money, a lot of money. Now she had the money, from another source, and the child had turned up again and might deprive her of it.

  What was he like? She had, of course, no feeling of love for him. Love was not only a matter of blood and flesh, it developed from holding a child, caring for it, answering its need for protection. There had never been any of that. He would have different ideas from hers, different feelings … he might even be a weakling, like Van.

  She had passed him that day in Bricker’s outer office, or so she believed. If that was indeed Val, he was a handsome young man, and anybody who could take Hardesty and Thurston Pike in gun battles was certainly no weakling.

  Myra got up and went to the window. It was raining, and she watched a hansom cab go by the door, the lamps thrusting narrow beams of light before them. She remembered nights like this when she was a child … remembered her father lighting the carriage lamps and carrying her out so she would not get her slippers wet, nor the hem of her long skirt. How old was she then? Twelve?

  She had never gone back, and she had not written. No doubt they believed she was dead, and surely they would never dream that she was the Myra Fossett who controlled mills, mines, and railroads.

  Of course, if her son got that box and chose to expose her, they would know … everyone would know. No doubt he hated her, and once the box was in his hands he could blackmail her for every cent she possessed. That he might not choose to do so never entered her mind.

  Avery Simpson had never met Myra Fossett, but he had heard of her, and he smelled money. But he was cautious. He knew who her attorneys were, and he also knew they would not want any dealings with him.

  She received him in the library, seated behind her desk. He had grown fat, and was almost unkempt. The woman he saw was not what he expected.

  She was very handsome, slender, with a splendid figure, and if there was gray in her hair, he could not see it. She motioned him to a chair and took up a single sheet of paper that lay on the desk.

  “You are Avery Simpson. You were involved in the Carnes-Wales business.”

  He was startled. His connection with that, his hiring of thugs for the company, had never appeared in the papers or the trial proceedings.

  Before he could protest, she continued. “You were also concerned with the payoff in the Sterling case.”

  He jumped up. “Now see here!”

  “Sit down!” Her tone was sharp. “You’re a cheap, blackleg lawyer, and I could list a dozen cases which, if they were known, could get you disbarred. Now listen to me. If you give me honest answers I will pay you for your time, not as much as you think it is worth, but more than I think it’s worth. Are you going to listen, or do I have you thrown out of here and then give all this to the press?”

  He sat there, shaking and frightened. Nobody could know all that … yet she did. He had best play this very easy.

  “You hired the murder of Will Reilly.”

  He started to protest, but she brushed him aside impatiently. “I suppose you know that Hardesty and Pike are dead?”

  He had not known. He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. Hardesty and Pike dead! “How—?”

  “They were killed in gun battles by Reilly’s nephew. Do you remember him?”

  “But he was only a boy!”

  “They grow up very fast out west, they tell me,” she said grimly. “He knows about you, doesn’t he?”

  The boy had been in the room when Will Reilly had forced him to write those letters. Simpson shifted uncomfortably. That was far away in the West. It was true he sometimes worried about Sonnenberg, but—

  “That boy was back east a few weeks ago,” Myra said, “and he has been asking questions.”

  Avery Simpson felt as if he was going to be sick. He tried to sit up straighter, his jowls quivering. Back east? Then he was not safe, not even here.

  “Who paid for Reilly’s murder?” The question was shot at him, suddenly, without warning.

  “It was Prince—” He stopped. “I can’t tell you that.”

  Myra Fossett had dealt with men too long and on too intimate terms not to know about such men as Avery Simpson. “Simpson,” she said coldly, “and even as I say it I know it is not your true name”—she saw him cringe a little at that—“I did not ask you here to make conversation. You tell me what you know, and no damned nonsense. If you don’t,” she smiled at him, “I will tell Henry Sonnenberg where to find you.”

  He stared at her. Who was she? How could she know about him?

  After a moment she said, “Now tell me. And tell me all about it.”

  Avery Simpson dug into his pocket for a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not if it will help your memory,” she said; “but get on with it. I have better things to do than sit here talking to you.”

  Prince Pavel had not told anyone his reasons for wanting Will Reilly killed. He had told neither the go-between who put him in touch with Simpson, nor had he told Simpson; but Avery Simpson, drinking in a
pub one night, had mentioned the scars on the face of Prince Pavel, and was told the story of the man he had tried to horsewhip.

  After Simpson had gone, Myra Fossett found herself smiling. The idea, she said to herself, of anybody trying to horsewhip Will Reilly!

  She was grimly amused, but her thoughts began to toy with the information she had acquired, and what it might do for her.

  Her business was doing well, but there were many doors which were still closed to her, doors that could be opened by such a name as Prince Pavel … or by any other prince, she told herself cynically.

  He had wanted to make a rich marriage for Princess Louise. Had he succeeded? What, exactly, was his financial situation at the moment? He might be someone she could use.

  He was obviously a good hater, and she liked that, but he was also a fool, for no man in his right mind could look into those cool green eyes of Will Reilly’s and still fancy they could have him whipped. Killed, perhaps, but not whipped. She had known other men of his kind, men you had to shoot to stop, for their pride and their courage was such that they could not be broken.

  She considered the several plans that had been lying in the dark and secret drawers of her mind, plans that awaited the right knowledge of the right people, or their assistance, but all of those people lay beyond walls she had not been able to breach. But with a captive prince …

  Her thoughts returned to her son. It was with a feeling of irritation that she realized she had thought of him thus. He was a stranger, by accident her son, with whom she had nothing in common. And at this juncture he was an outright danger to her, and to all she had planned and accomplished.

  Avery Simpson had provided her with a handle for the manipulation of a prince, or the possibility of it. The first thing was to ascertain the financial standing of Prince Pavel, and of the Princess Louise, if she was still around. If the prince was gambling, as Simpson had implied, he would probably need money.

  She glanced at her watch. She had been invited to dinner at the Harcort’s, and there was just time to make it. At such times she missed Van.

  Though she had no use for men, yet there were times when a woman needed an escort, and Van had always been there; and even when drinking his manners had been perfect. She could have used him now.

  At the Harcort’s there would be a number of fashionable people, including men with far-reaching business connections. It was at such parties that she had made most of the contacts she had developed and used. Men who were drinking often explained things to a beautiful woman who was a good listener, telling her of stock deals and financial arrangements in which their wives were rarely interested. It was true that some of them had grown cautious after their casual boasting had cost them money. For Myra not only knew how to get information, she knew how to use it.

  She rarely worried about meeting anyone who might have known her in the past. The men she had entertained in the mining and cattle towns rarely came east; and she had changed the color of her hair, wore higher heels, and presented a very different appearance. She had never returned to the West, and had no desire to do so. But there remained the chance of encountering some former client, so she restricted her social activities to private parties, rarely going to large hotels or restaurants, or to watering places.

  She called for one of her runners and before she left for dinner she had started the movement of events that would have Henry Sonnenberg checking the arrival of a certain box, and would bring her information as to the financial status of Prince Pavel Pavelovitch.

  In a saloon, not more than a dozen blocks away, Avery Simpson stood at the bar and nursed a drink. He needed that drink and those that would follow, for Myra Fossett had scared the daylights out of him.

  She knew too much for comfort, but what puzzled him was her familiarity with the identities of Will Reilly, Henry Sonnenberg, and some others. All of which gave rise to the question: Who was Myra Fossett?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A few weeks later Prince Pavel was asking himself the same question. He had received through his bank a note written in a small but beautiful hand a suggestion that if he were in a position to come to America on a brief visit it might prove financially interesting to him.

  He put the note aside, a bit curious as to this Myra Fossett who had written it. When he went to dinner he noticed an old friend across the room, a man known for his international business affairs, and for his unusual success. It was Robert Fleury. Prince Pavel went over to his table.

  “Robert,” he said, “do you by any chance know anything of an American woman named Fossett?”

  Fleury turned sharply. “Myra Fossett? How do you know anything about her?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  Fleury shrugged. “It is simply that she is a business woman … beautiful, but very shrewd, also.”

  “A woman? In business?”

  Fleury shrugged again. “There are more than you think, but none of them like Madame Fossett.”

  “She is wealthy?”

  “Rolling in it.” Fleury studied his friend. “But what do you know of her?”

  Pavel’s explanation solved nothing. “I do not know what she has in mind,” Fleury said, “but be assured there is money in it. She thinks of nothing but money, that one. Be careful, my friend. When she makes any such proposal you can be sure it is for her benefit alone—that much I know of her. She is not only shrewd, she is utterly ruthless, and without a scruple.”

  Pavel was not impressed. He had no scruples himself; and a woman, a beautiful woman, and very wealthy … “I have no idea what she has in mind,” he said.

  Robert Fleury, whose interests in America were many, was puzzled, because so far as he was aware Madame Fossett had shown no interest in any man that was not casual, nor did she seem very active in a social way. She was not a partygiver, and seemed to ignore most of the social highlights of the season.

  “Just be warned,” he said again, “but you can be sure whatever it is has money in it.”

  Prince Pavel, ten years before, had come into a good-sized inheritance which had since dwindled because of his enthusiasm for gambling. It was growing increasingly difficult to borrow, and although he had a small reserve he had kept untouched, it was too small for comfort.

  His cousin, the Princess Louise, was single again. Her husband—Pavel had finally been successful in that matter—had died, leaving her a considerable estate, but so far Pavel had been unable to touch it. Louise was careful, and she knew him well enough to distrust him. Nevertheless, they were on friendly terms.

  Louise had beauty, she had presence, and there were a lot of millionaires in America, he had heard. If he handled it wisely … he did not like the idea of Louise marrying an American, but if the man was rich enough …

  Prince Pavel was no longer handsome—the scars took care of that—but he had found that scars seemed the utmost in masculinity to some women, and his he represented, without actually saying so, as dueling scars.

  He had an idea it would not be difficult to persuade Louise to accompany him. She had always had an interest in everything American … at least since she met that damned Reilly.

  A few days later he replied to Myra Fossett. My cousin, the Princess Louise, and I, have been considering a visit to New York. Am I to assume you wish us to come as your guests?

  The response was immediate. Passage was arranged, everything paid for, and there remained nothing but to go.

  For three weeks Val Darrant had been working harder than he had ever worked in his life. He had branded calves, cleaned out water holes, repaired corral fences, trapped wolves, pulled steers out of bogs, and helped in the breaking of horses. He had been getting out of bed before daylight, and rarely coming in off the range until well after dark. He had worked as hard as any hand on the ranch, and he had worked with Tensleep beside him, learning from him as they worked.

  His shoulder wound had healed rapidly, and he was not one to pamper himself when there was so much
to be done. But always, in the back of his mind, there remained the thought that soon he must catch the stage for Colorado.

  He was thinking of it now as he topped out on a rise and looked over the wide basin below.

  Cody rode up to join him, a lean, wide-shouldered young man with cool eyes and an easy way of moving and talking.

  “How you comin’ boy? Shoulder botherin’ any?”

  “No, it’s all right now, though I find myself favoring it a little. I just don’t like to think about leaving.”

  “We’ll miss you,” Cody built a cigarette, touched the paper with his tongue. “You’ve been doin’ more’n your share.”

  “We need rain,” Val commented. “The grass on the high range looks bad.”

  “Heel flies are gettin’ worse, too,” Cody said, and he added, “boy, you better let one of us ride along with you. Dube, he’s a-rarin’ to go.”

  “It would be company,” Val admitted. “How’s the work stack up?”

  “We got it whupped. You take Dube. I’d admire to go myself, but if trouble shapes up, me an’ Tardy ought to be here. Dube is dead fast with a gun, a better than usual tracker, and maybe the best rifle shot amongst us.”

  “Why all this concern?”

  Cody grinned. “Boston said there’d be no foolin’ you. Fact is, Tardy picked up a story. Boston heard talk of it over to Winslows’, too. Henry Sonnenberg was in Mobeetie, roundin’ up two or three tough ones.”

  “So?”

  “They taken off, night before last … headin’ for Colorado.”

  Far down the valley some cattle were walking toward the creek, and a thin plume of dust told of a lone rider coming across the flat. That would be Boston, returning from the Winslows’.

  “I can handle Sonnenberg.”

  “Yeah, I think maybe you can, although there’s nobody more dangerous than him, but what about the others? He’s got himself some tough men.”

  “You think he’s gunning for me?”

  “No. I figure there’s something else in the wind. So does Pa. You see, a body don’t live long in this country unless he keeps track of folks, so we got us a little bird over to Mobeetie. Pa, he gives him eatin’ money and this little bird keeps us alive as to who’s comin’ and goin’. Seems like one of these men he picked up, one he asked for special, is just out of prison for blowing the safe in a bank.”