Treasure Mountain
Louis L'amour
*
Chapter I
"To Kill A Man, My Dear, Is Not Always To Make An End Of Him." The statement was made by Andre Baston.
"But after twenty years? Twenty years?" said the woman.
"A lifetime to you, Fanny, but only yesterday to a man like your Uncle Philip."
"But how could anyone know? It all happened so long ago, and so far away!"
"Nevertheless, a man is here in New Orleans and he is asking questions. His name is Sackett."
"What?"
"Orrin Sackett. He is an attorney, a lawyer. He has the same name as the man who went to the western mountains with Pierre."
Fanny Baston was small, slender, voluptuous, and beautiful. Her shoulders were soft and amazingly white, her lips were warm and a little full, and her eyes were large.
She shrugged. "What difference can it make? Let him ask his questions. We simply know nothing. Who is left who could possibly know anything?"
Andre scowled. "I do not know. Nobody, perhaps. But I do not like him asking questions. If Philip ever found out ..."
"It would be the end," Paul said. "The end. He would cut us off, leave us nothing."
"You, perhaps," Fanny said to Andre. "But I was a baby. Not five years old. And Paul, you were not even in your teens. We had nothing to do with it."
"Do you think that would matter?" said Paul. "Uncle Philip only needs an excuse to cut us all off. You too. You aren't exactly his pride and joy, you know."
"Then," she leaned forward, dusting the ash of her small cigar into a saucer, "kill him. Kill this Orrin Sackett and drop him in the bayou before he can even be connected to us. Kill him at once."
Andre was no longer surprised at anything his niece said. "You have an idea?"
"Do it yourself, Andre. He would not be the first." She looked up at him and smiled. "Why not? Find an excuse, challenge him. There is not a better shot in New Orleans, and as for a rapier ... how many men have you killed, Andre? In duels, I mean?"
"Twelve," he replied. "You have a point. It might be the answer."
"You are too bloody," Paul objected. "If you want him killed, there are other ways. We might get him into one of the concert-saloons--the Buffalo Bill House, for example. Williams would take care of him for us."
"No." Fanny spoke sharply. "No, Paul. If there is killing to be done, the fewer who know the better. And nobody outside the family."
"She's right," Andre said, "but this is all so premature. This Orrin Sackett cannot know anything. Pierre was obviously French, obviously from Louisiana. He brought Sackett back here to outfit before we started west, but Sackett never left the river front. I don't know what stirred this up, but all we have to do is sit quietly and allow it to pass. If he gets close then we can act." He shrugged, looking down at the tip of his cigar. "After all, New Orleans may take care of him without our help. He would not be the first."
"Have you seen him?" Fanny asked.
"Yes. He's a big man, nearly as big as I am. Perhaps even as big. He's a good-looking fellow, dresses well, seems to know his way around."
Paul looked up. "Andre, wasn't there some disturbance down on the waterfront a few years back? Some trouble involving some Sacketts?"
"I believe you are right, Paul. I do recall something of the kind. An attempt was made to rob one of them and there was a fight--quite a bloody one."
"That could be the answer, Uncle Andre," Fanny suggested. "A Sackett returns ... a revenge killing."
She was right, of course. It was a simple, logical method if it became necessary. He would make a few inquiries. If any of the old crowd were around he might just drop a word here and there. Anyway, this was all over nothing. This Sackett knew nothing, could know nothing.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. He still had the map. He had kept it, believing it held a clue to the treasure. None of them knew he had it, for he had never mentioned it to anyone. After all, when one holds the only clue to the location of thirty million in gold one does not talk about it. The stuff was there. He had taken the time to look up the old reports turned into the government those many years ago, and of course, there was mention of the gold the French army had mined--thirty millions!
He had been thinking of going back to look for that gold, and this was probably the time. He was forty years old now, stronger and more able than ever. He must think about the future, and he had little faith in what Philip might leave them.
Philip liked none of them too well, and with good reason.
What did Sackett know?
Orrin Sackett, standing before his mirror in the Saint Charles Hotel, combed his hair carefully, set his cravat in place, and left his room. At the head of the stairs he paused momentarily and touched his left side lightly. The Smith and Wesson Russian he carried was resting easily. No trouble was expected, but habit remains with a man.
So far the trip had netted him exactly nothing. He had doubted from the first that they would uncover anything. New Orleans was a big city. Twenty years had passed, and the clues he had were slight. Still, if it would please ma there was no effort he would not make.
After all, what information did he have? Twenty years ago a man of strong French accent wanted to make a trip to a certain place in the western mountains. That implied that he had made a previous trip or that he had knowledge of someone who had made such a trip.
Pa had been asked to guide this Frenchman, and the trip was expected to last but a few months--time to get there and return.
What would take a man to lonely mountains at the risk of being killed by Indians? Furs? To trap furs a man had to remain the winter through. A mine?
Perhaps. He might wish to ascertain if the mine was worth development. Yet ... wasn't it more likely that he knew of gold already mined? Or thought he did?
When Orrin added up all the information he had, he was looking for a Frenchman, probably from Louisiana, who had some previous connection, direct or indirect, with someone who had been to the western mountains. Flimsy as that was, it did much to clear the field, for not many Frenchmen had gone west from Louisiana.
From Canada ... yes. Of course, France had controlled all of Louisiana for a time, and, during the period of the Mississippi Bubble and John Law, great efforts had been made to find gold and silver. Law had promised his investors wealth and he made every effort to discover it--or indications of it.
This Frenchman had not wanted a large party. Yet, it was unlikely that they had actually gone alone. Hence one of the party might have returned, or there might be a relative who knew something about the affair. The trouble was he had no starting point. Yet, the simplest way was often the best, and that meant checking the obvious sources--in this case, government records of mines, claims, and exploring expeditions in the back country.
Another way, equally simple, was to meet some of the older citizens and start them recalling their youth. It sometimes required patience, but he had an interest in such things and could afford a few days. Or he could get some discussion started of the John Law period--the most likely time for any mineral exploration.
Bienville, during his governorship, had waited little time searching for nonexistent minerals. His had been a more practical, down-to-earth approach, and, had he been let alone to proceed as he wished, the colony might have been successful long before it was.
At dinner Orrin sat quietly and alone, listening to the idle talk around him and enjoying the lights and music. He had always enjoyed dining alone, for it gave him time to think as well as to absorb the atmosphere around him. And tonight the dining room was filled with attractive, beautifully gowned women and handsomely dressed men.
He ordered his meal when the waiter appeared. "And the wine, sir?"
"Chateauneuf-du-Pape," he said quietly. The older gentleman turned his head and glanced at him. Their eyes met, and Orrin smiled. "An excellent wine, sir," the man said.
"Thank you. Anything less would not fit the surroundings."
"You are a stranger here?"
"I have been here more than once. But this is the first opportunity I have had to relax in a long while." Orrin watched the waiter open his wine, tasted it, then said to the old man, "I am interested in some mining claims in the San Juan Mountains in Colorado. I have heard rumors to the effect that people from New Orleans located mines in that area."
The old man smiled, "I doubt that, sir. There was much talk of gold, of course, and stories of discoveries in the Far West, but nothing came of it, nothing at all."
"Men did go out there, however?"
"A few. Adventurers or fools. Oh, yes! I believe the French government did send a military detachment to the West at one time, but that was very long ago."
"Did you know any of those who went west?"
"No ... no, I think not. We were planting sugar then and were much too busy to think of such things. And I believe very few did go."
"What of Pierre?" His wife suggested.
"Pierre?" he frowned. "Oh, yes! But that was later. He never came back, so we never did know what he went after, exactly. Some wild-goose chase, I expect. The Bastons were a mixed lot. Not very steady, you know. Chopping about from one thing to another. They still are, for that matter."
"Charles!"
"Well, it's true, and you know it. That Andre, for example, he is nothing but a--"
Suddenly a man was standing by the table. "You were saying, LaCroix?"
Orrin glanced up. The man was tall and broad, strongly built with a face that might have been carved from granite. The eyes were cold and blue, the face clean-shaven but for a waxed mustache.
"You were speaking of me, LaCroix?"
Orrin was shocked when he glanced at the old man, for his face had gone white and stiff. He was frightened, but even as Orrin looked, the man's pride asserted itself and he started to rise.
Instantly, Orrin was on his feet. "I am afraid you have the advantage of me, sir. We were talking of my old neighbors, Andy and Bert Masters. Do you know them, then?"
"Who?"
Andre Baston faced sharply around.
"If you know them," Orrin said, smiling, "you'll understand. Andy, he was a moonshiner. Came from Tennessee and settled down here in the bayous and took to makin' whiskey--by the way, what did you say your name was? Mine is Sackett.
Orrin Sackett."
"I'm Andre Baston. I do not understand you, sir." Andre's tone was cold. "I understood this man to say--"
"Sure you did. The Masters were a no-good lot. I never did figure that was even their name. Even the 'shine they made wasn't much, but one thing I'll give ol'
Andy. He had him a couple of the best coon-hounds--"
"I am afraid there is some mistake," Andre said coldly. He stared into Orrin's eyes. "You, sir, I do not like."
Orrin chuckled. "Now, isn't that a coincidence? I was just about to say the same thing. I don't like you, either, but while we're on the subject, what did happen to Pierre?"
Andre's face went pale with shock, then reddened. Before he could speak, Orrin said, "Not that I care, but folks ask questions when a man disappears.
Especially a man like Pierre. He wasn't alone, was he? Man should never go into wild country alone. Of course, that always raises the question of what happened to those who were with him? Did any of them get back?"
Orrin thrust out his hand. "Nice talking to you, Mr. Baston, maybe we can sit down for a real confidential talk one of these times."
Abruptly, Orrin sat down, and Andre Baston walked away.
The old man was sunken in his chair, his face gray. His wife looked across at Orrin. "Thank you, oh, thank you! You saved his life, you know. They have never liked us, and Andre Baston is a duelist."
"He is?" Orrin glanced at Andre. He was seating himself at the adjoining table.
"Was he with Pierre on that trip west?"
For a moment there was no reply, and then the woman spoke softly. "We must go now, monsieur. It is late and my husband is tired."
LaCroix got to his feet slowly. For a moment Orrin thought he was about to fall, but he stiffened his shoulders. Then he looked down at Orrin. "I am not sure. I believe he was."
Orrin got to his feet. "I have enjoyed the conversation. If I can be of any assistance--"
"Thank you."
He sat down again, watching them walk slowly away, two fine, proud people.
Suddenly, a voice spoke. "Mr. Sackett? I am Fanny Baston, and my uncle is very sorry for the way he acted. He believed it was his name he heard."
Orrin Sackett looked up into the eyes of one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Quickly, he got to his feet. "It was a natural mistake," he said.
"We must make amends. We would not wish you to leave New Orleans thinking us inhospitable." She put her hand on his. "Mr. Sackett, would you come to dinner at our home? Thursday night?"
"Of course," he said. "I'd be glad to come." When she seated herself at her own table, she looked at her brother and uncle. "There!" she said. "Now it is up to you! What did we come here for, anyway?"
Chapter II
We Sacketts been going down to New Orleans ever since there was a town yonder.
This time I wasn't going to see the lights or dance the fandango, but to help Orrin work out a trail. The trail along which we had to read sign was twenty years cold, and it was the trail of our own father.
Pa was what you'd call a wandering man, a mountain man in his later years, who understood the trapping of fur and how to get along with the red man.
He had been to the shining mountains a time or two, but the last time he never come home. That wasn't so unusual as to raise sweat on a man, for those were perilous times, and many a man went west and nobody saw anything of him after that but maybe his hair at some Indian's belt.
We boys knew the country ways, and we figured pa was thrown from his horse somewhere on the high plains, got caught without water, or run short of powder and lead with the Indians closing in. There was a sight of things could happen to a body in western lands, and betwixt us we'd come up against most of them.
The trouble was with ma.
She was growing old now, and with the passing of years her memories turned more and more to pa, and to wondering what had become of him. She was fearful he might be stove up and helpless somewhere back in the hills, or maybe held hostage by some Indians. Of a night ma didn't sleep very well, and she'd set up in her old rocker and worry about pa.
Now pa was a knowing kind of a man. He could make do with mighty little, and, given time, he could edge himself out of any kind of a fix. We boys figured that if pa was alive he'd come home, one way or t'other.
We were living in New Mexico now. Tyrel was trying to sell his holdings near Mora, figuring on moving west to the new town of Shalako. Orrin was busy with his law practice, but he said he could take some time, and I guess I was actually free to roam. Anyway, no woman, except ma, would worry for me.
"I'll go to New Orleans, Tell," Orrin told me, "and I'll check what records I can find. When you come along down I'll try to have a starting place."
The three of us set down with ma to talk over pa's last days at home to find some clue to just where he was going. The Rockies are a wide and wonderful bunch of mountains, but they aren't just one range. There are hundreds of them, so where in the high-up hills do you begin to hunt for a man?
Do you start hunting sign in the Black Hills or the Big Belts?
The Absarokas, Sawatch, or Sangre de Cristos? Do you search the Greenhorns, the Big Horns, Wind Rivers, San Juans, La Platas, the Needles, Mogollons, Lintas, Crazy Mountains, or Salish? The Abajos, Henrys, Peloncillos, the Chiricahuas, or the Snake Range?
Do you cross the Black Rock Desert or the Painted? Do you search down in Hell's Canyon? On the Green or the Popo Agie?
Where do you hunt for one man where armies might be lost?
New Orleans was a far piece from the fur-trapped streams where the beaver build, but it was there the trail should begin, for it was there pa headed when he rode away from the Cumberland Hills of Tennessee.
Cities made me uneasy. A body couldn't blaze a trail in a city, and folks weren't out and out what they seemed. Usually, they made it a point to show one face while hiding another.
Orrin was city-wise. He could read city-sign the way I'd track a mustang horse across a flat-rock mesa. Of course, Orrin was also a fair hand at tracking and nigh as good in a shootout as me or Tyrel. Orrin had started early to reading law, packing a copy of Blackstone in his saddlebags and reading whenever there was time. He was also an upstanding, handsome man, and when he started to talk even the rocks and trees had to listen. We Sacketts were English and Welsh mostly, but Orrin must have taken after the Welsh, who have the gift of speaking with a song in their words.
New Orleans wasn't no new place to me, like I said. We Sacketts, along with other hill folks from Kentucky or Tennessee, been floating rafts of logs downstream for a coon's age, but the places I knew best weren't likely to be on Orrin's callin' list. Come to think of it most of those places were joints where I'd gone to roust out our shanty boys to get them started home. Places like Billy Phillip's 101 Ranch, Lulu White's Mahogany Hall, the Five Dollar House, and the Frenchman's. Or maybe Murphy's Dance House on Gallatin Street.
You had to be a man with the bark on to even go into those places. I never paid 'em much mind, but when you went downriver with a shanty-boat crew you wound up in some mighty rough places. I usually had to lead the fight that got them out, and those fights aren't for the delicate. It was fist, skull, an' batter 'em down, and you stayed on your feet or you got tromped.
Treasure Mountain (1972) Page 1