Collection 1999 - Beyond The Great Snow Mountains (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Turk glanced quickly at the trail to the plane. Obviously, the Russian had been here some time, for his footprints were covered over with new snow. He turned at right angles to the river and started off through the timber. “Wrong way,” Diakov protested.

  “We’d get there just a few minutes ahead of their pursuit,” Turk said, “and not time enough to warm up the plane and take off. No, we’ve got to lead them back in the hills.”

  Diakov’s eyes lighted. “In the Sihote Alins? I hope they all follow us, comrade. We will show them something, no?”

  In silence the three struck out through the timber. Behind them they knew pursuit would be organized. The Japanese dared not leave when there was a chance that other planes would catch them before they were far out at sea.

  Turk said nothing as he followed Diakov through the timber. The big Cossack was a marvel on skis, and it took only a few minutes for Turk to see that Tony Reardon was able to muddle along.

  “What kind of shape are you in?” he asked her.

  She smiled for the first time. “I’ll get the hang of it. I used to do this when I was a kid in upstate New York. Don’t worry about me.”

  After that it was grim business. There was no chance of eluding their pursuers, but they had a lead that they increased after a few miles. Diakov didn’t look for easy going, and as often as possible he led them across bare, icy spots where the skis left no trail.

  After a while Turk stopped. “You go ahead,” he said to them. “I’m going to give these boys something to worry about.”

  The two headed away. He and Diakov in a murmured conversation had settled on a lonely peak for a rendezvous, deciding shortly after their start that would be their destination.

  Turk took a limb from a tree and brushed the trail. The fast-falling snow would fill in the gaps. Then he walked back over a bare spot, carrying his skis. Down below, a half mile behind, he saw a knot of men, several others scattered out behind.

  He rested the captured rifle on a branch and steadied it against his cheek. Allowing for the cold, he took careful aim, trying the rifle from several positions. He watched them come closer, then steadied the rifle and fired.

  The group split like magic, and in an instant the trail was emptied of all but one man. He got up and, carrying one ski, hobbled into the brush. Taking his time, Turk fired three times, moving himself. Then slipping on his skis, he started out at a fast clip.

  Shooting through an opening in the trees, he drove himself down a long slope in long, swift strides, took a quick turn around the bole of a huge tree, and started up a long slope through the brush, moving at an angle. Far below a shot rang out, and he knew he had been sighted, but he did not stop. Another shot, and then he stopped.

  Taking a quick glance back, he threw up his rifle and fired. One of the men sprang aside.

  “Stung him!” Turk muttered. “Well, that’ll keep ’em worried.”

  He had gone no more than two miles before he stopped suddenly. Above him, on the steep side hill above the vague trail he was following, a huge boulder was poised. Behind it and on up the mountain were several tree trunks, more rock, and the makings of a small slide. He halted, studying the situation thoughtfully. There was a loose collection of rocks under the boulder, but apparently one stone held the bigger boulder in place. Using a broken limb, he cleared out some of the dirt and loose stuff from underneath and experimentally rocked the boulder back and forth.

  Smiling, he continued on. Occasionally he glanced back, but kept to the trail, the boulder in sight. Twice he sighted his rifle over his back trail, and finally he halted.

  Seating himself on a rock, he waited. From time to time he stood up and moved around to keep warm. Then he saw them coming. Slowly, the men began to wind along the trail below the boulder. Raising his rifle, he sighted carefully, took a long breath, and let a little out of his lungs. Then holding the rifle loosely, he squeezed the trigger.

  He fired not at the men themselves, but at the spot where the rock was holding the slide suspended above the trail. Nothing happened. He shifted his position a little and fired again. Immediately there was a terrific roar, and he saw the slide wipe a black path across the mountainside.

  When he moved on again, it was with the knowledge that two fewer men followed him.

  It was dark when Turk reached the hollow at the base of the peak. The spot was secluded, and the path he had taken brought him there only a few minutes after Diakov and Tony arrived. The Cossack was cutting dry wood from the underside of a fallen log to build a fire. When it was burning, they sat around talking in low tones. There was small chance of pursuit until daybreak, which was hours away. Traveling even in the day was not easy. At night, with boulders, ice slides, and heavy snow laced with fallen trunks, it would be infinitely more dangerous.

  Diakov brewed tea over the fire, and after they had finished a bar of chocolate that Turk shared among them, Turk cleared a wider place in the snow and shifted the fire. Then he spread dry leaves from the bottom of a snow-covered pile over the warm ground where the fire had been. Tony could hardly keep her eyes open, and an instant after she touched the ground, she slept. Diakov and Turk shared watches.

  * * *

  IT WAS JUST turning gray when Turk awakened. Diakov was putting fuel on the fire. “I went back to look,” he said softly. “They are three miles back, but a mile and a half east of us. They have lost our trail and talk of returning.”

  Turk scowled. “That means we must make the plane today. The ship won’t leave until these fellows return.”

  Turk awakened Tony and they hastily slipped on their skis and hit the trail. It was all downhill now. They had reached a high elevation and the trees had thinned out to a few fir, some Siberian larch, and spruce. The lower reaches along the valleys were covered with dense forest with few trails. Giant poplars reached toward the sky, some of them hundreds of years old. Sliding in among the trees, Turk led the way at a rapid pace. There was no time now for delay. Whatever was to be done must be done at once.

  There was a chance that, casting about, the Japs would find their trail, but the risk had to be taken. The air was still and very cold, but the brisk movement kept them warm. Several times Turk stopped to study the back trail, but they moved so rapidly that almost before they realized it, they shot out of the woods beside the river.

  The Grumman was lying quietly in the backwater, her wings heavy with snow. Hastily, while Diakov and Tony brushed the snow away, Turk worked over the twin motors. After a few choking tries, they kicked off, roaring into life with a thunder that awakened the still cold of the taiga.

  Tony got into the cabin, and then Diakov cast off. Instantly, gambling against the Japanese hearing his signals, Turk began to call the landing field at Khabarovsk. He glanced at his watch. Murzin would be on now. He sent his call out again.

  “Madden, Ussuri coast patrol, calling Khabarovsk. Coast patrol calling Khabarovsk.”

  After a minute he heard Murzin. “Come in, Madden. Where you been, comrade?”

  “S.S. Welleston, bound for Vladivostok, tied up in river mouth south of Nahtohu River. Mutiny aboard. Situation serious. Come loaded for bear.”

  “Stand by, Coast Patrol.”

  Turk Madden swung the Grumman around and headed for the shore. He was at home now. In the air, flying his specially built amphibian, he was always at home. For what she was, the ship was fast and maneuverable. He saw the gray line of the sea and then he was over it. Glancing down, he saw the freighter. There was no fog now, and he could see the line of men coming wearily through the trees from their fruitless chase.

  Instantly, he banked, then pushed the stick forward and sent the ship down in a steep dive, opening up with the machine guns the Russians had installed. A blur of snow lifted near the men, and the line melted. He hauled back on the stick and the Grumman climbed steeply, then he swung back over the freighter and cleared her deck with a burst of fire.

  Then Diakov was hammering on his back and pointing. He loo
ked up to see a V of planes coming toward him about five hundred feet up. Turk’s face turned grim and he climbed even more steeply. The Grumman went up and up and up, reaching for altitude. When he looked again, he could see the planes more closely. Three light bombers all painted with the rising sun. They were probably there in case the Russians had brought up a destroyer, or to sink the ship if it looked like it would get away. After all, it was an American ship.

  Madden swung the Grumman around. Stand by, they said. That meant to keep the situation in hand. One of the planes was climbing to meet him, and coming up fast. He had outflown the Japanese before, and could do it again, but in a ship like this, against a war plane, even the best of flying would have to be nine-tenths luck to come out alive. He streaked away from the climbing aircraft and went into a dive over the next lowest bomber.

  The fellow swung away, and Turk’s first burst of fire missed. Then he did an Immelmann and came in on the bomber’s tail. His second burst painted a string of holes along the bomber’s fuselage, and he saw the string reach the pilot. The bomber shot up, suddenly fell off, and going into a slow falling turn, burst into a bright rose of flame.

  A streak of tracers shot by him, and Turk pulled the Grumman around, diving straight for the trees and the low-hanging fog with the other plane after him. The Japanese was a flier, and with his greater speed was coming up fast. Turk felt an icy blast of air as Diakov swung open the roof hatch behind the wing and deployed his gun mount. The Cossack slammed his machine gun onto the pivot and opened up as Turk banked the ship steeply, his wing tip almost grazing the treetops, and roared into the fog bank. The war plane pulled up slightly, and Madden’s Grumman bucked and pitched through the mist with prayer the only force keeping him out of the invisible treetops.

  Turk pulled up, into the clear, but the other plane had swung around and was coming at him from the side. The big Grumman was in a spot, and Turk banked around and headed straight for the nearest war plane, his twin motors wide open and all his guns hammering. The Japanese held on grimly, and the two planes shot at each other with terrific force, but in the split second before they would have come together, the Japanese lost his nerve and pulled back on his stick. The plane shot up, and Diakov raked his underside with a wild burst from his gun. Then he shot on by, and only had Diakov’s shout of triumph to know that he had scored again.

  Strangely, the last aircraft was streaking off over the Sea of Japan and climbing. Turk banked a little and glanced down to find himself coming in toward the freighter. A Jap on the shore was desperately trying to cast off. Turk shoved forward on the stick and opened up immediately with a burst of fire. The man crumpled, seeming to come all apart at the seams, and a second man, rushing for the woods, was caught on the edge of the raking burst and fell, his body tumbling in a complete somersault.

  Turk came around and trimmed back for a hot landing on the river just before the freighter. The Cossack sprang ashore with a line, and Turk, leaving him to make the ship fast, grabbed his automatic and dashed for the ship.

  Richards. The man was still aboard, and he needed to be apprehended.

  Turk reached the top of the ladder just as Richards stepped out of the amidships house. The man’s face turned livid and, without regard for Turk’s gun, sprang at him. Madden hesitated only a second, then shoved the gun in his pocket and sprang forward, throwing punches with both fists.

  Richards was not only big, he was tough and powerful. They grappled and he rolled over and scrambled free. Both men came up at the same time. Turk started to close in, but Richards kicked him away, and when Turk struck out, he caught his arm in a flying mare. Turk relaxed and went on over in an easy roll, landing on his feet. He spun around, slipped a fast left, and smashed a big fist into Richards’s stomach. The mate backed up, his face dark with fury and pain. Turk followed, stabbing a left to the face, then crossing a jarring right to the chin. Richard’s knees wilted and he almost fell. He lunged forward, and Turk broke his nose with a driving right hook. Richards went down, hitting the deck hard.

  Aaron Richards scrambled to his feet. Wheeling, he rushed for the gangway that led to the bank of the river. He bent over and plucked the large pin that allowed the gangway to swivel back and forth out of its hole. As Turk closed on him, Richards turned and swung the heavy piece of metal. It hit Turk a stunning blow on the back of his shoulder and knocked him flat on the deck, his pistol coming loose from its holster and rattling into the scuppers.

  By the time Turk had picked himself up, Richards was stumbling down the ladder and out onto the muddy ground. When he saw Turk appear at the ship’s rail, he turned and, taking hold of the gangway railing, gave a mighty heave. The entire assembly, now disconnected at the top, came loose. Scraping down the side of the hull, it crashed into the gap between the ship and the riverbank. The mate took to his heels.

  Diakov was returning from scouting the trees, and Richards straight-armed him like a football player. The big Russian went down, and Richards disappeared into the stand of fir along the water. Turk watched as he picked himself up, but instead of giving chase he limped toward the Welleston.

  “There are still some left, comrade! They’ve a boat down the river!”

  At that moment a heavy engine roared to life beyond the trees. Turk ran to the other rail in time to see a Japanese torpedo boat arc out into the river. She was going all out, bow high in the water and her stern sunk deep, a cloud of blue-gray exhaust trailing from her pipes. Within minutes Aaron Richards would make the inlet, and from there the open ocean.

  Turk backed up, yanked off his low boots and coat and, vaulting the railing, took a running dive into the icy water. The height and the cold took his breath away, but within a dozen powerful strokes he was alongside the Grumman and scrambling onto the hull. His clasp knife made quick work of the mooring rope, and then he was pulling himself into the cockpit and firing the engines.

  He flew down the river with the throttles wide open, leaving Diakov on the bank bellowing encouragement. As the plane clawed for altitude, Turk struggled out of his freezing shirt and turned up the mostly ineffective cabin heater.

  As the water deepened, the patches of fog thinned, and then ahead of him he could see the torpedo boat. She was shooting across the swells like an arrow, kicking up blasts of spray and leaving a long wake. Turk put the plane into a shallow dive. Fast as the Japanese craft was, the Grumman came down on it at over a hundred fifty miles per hour. Turk triggered his forward guns, the burst cutting the water across the bow.

  There were only two men visible on deck—a Japanese sailor at the helm, and Richards, who was struggling to pull the cover from the boat’s antiaircraft machine gun. Turk wheeled around and came back, angling in on the fast gray boat carefully. The man at the wheel had begun evasive maneuvers, and Turk could tell it was throwing off Richards’s aim; his gun flamed, but it was a moment before he hit the Grumman, and then the bullets found only the wing tip.

  Turk held his fire as Richards swung his gun, and then he let go with a long burst just before the traitor could fire. The steel-jacketed slugs tore up the decking, forcing Richards to dive for cover, and continued ripping back and down into the engine compartment. Turk shot past, barely off the water, then pulled back on the stick, heading up toward the clouds.

  Outside his left-hand window he saw his port engine stall and die. The drag pulled at the plane, and he leveled out, trying to compensate with his rudder. He turned the nose of the plane back toward land and was glancing at the motor for any signs of bullet damage or fire when the starboard engine died.

  “This could be better!” he muttered to himself.

  Grimly, Turk put the ship into a long glide and aimed for the calm water just inside the bar at the mouth of the river.

  The amphibian set down upon the water smoothly, and when it came to a halt, Turk turned and flipped on the two-way radio switch.

  “Calling Khabarovsk…calling Khabarovsk. Madden, Coast Patrol. Down at sea off Kumuhu River. Please sen
d help. Out of petrol.”

  “Khabarovsk airdrome answering Madden, Coast Patrol. Stand by.”

  Another voice spoke through the radio. “Diakov calling from S.S. Welleston. I found the crew tied up. We’re coming to fish you out. Are you all right, comrade?”

  “Okay for now. Go pick up Richards first, no immediate danger…only I wanted to be shipwrecked with a beautiful dame.”

  “Well,” a cool voice said in his ear, “you’re not very complimentary!”

  Turk turned and his jaw dropped. “Tony! What are you doing here!”

  “I was in the plane, and you just jumped in and took off, so here I am!”

  Turk must have left his mike switched on. “Comrade Madden…do you want to countermand that rescue order?”

  Diakov waited for a reply, but there was no sound but the lapping of water against the hull. The Cossack had spent three years in the United States and had seen many movies. He sighed deeply.

  THE GRAVEL PIT

  * * *

  MURDER HAD BEEN no part of his plan, yet a more speculative man would have realized that a crime is like a lie, and one inevitably begets another, for the commission of a first crime is like a girl’s acceptance of a first lover—the second always comes easier.

  To steal the payroll had seemed absurdly simple, and Cruzon willingly accepted the risk involved. Had he even dreamed that his crime would lead to violence, he would never have taken the first step, for he’d never struck a man in anger in his life, and only one woman.

  But once he accepted the idea of murder, it was natural that he should think of the gravel pit. In no other place was a body so likely to lie undiscovered. The pit had been abandoned long ago, used as a playground by neighborhood children until the families moved from the vicinity and left it to the oil wells. Brush had now grown up around the pit, screening it, hiding it.

  Now that the moment of murder approached, Cruzon waited by the window of his unlighted room, staring into the rain-wet street, his mouth dry, and a queer, formless sort of dread running through him.