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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Finish your coffee,” Darby said. “We’ll save the diary.”

  They started to get up, and the thin, dark man came around the counter very fast. “Want some more coffee? Sure, have some…on the house.”

  “No,” Mary said, “not now.”

  “Come on” the waiter said, smiling, “it’s a cold night.”

  “The lady said no,” Darby told him sharply, then turned to Mary. “Let’s get out of here!”

  They got into their cars and started them fast, but not fast enough. Just as Mary started to swing her car out from the curb, an old coupe with a bright metallic paint job wheeled around the corner and angled across in front of it. Two men got out and started toward her.

  V

  Darby left his car door hanging and started back, slipping on a pair of skintight gloves. Both men were small and swarthy, and both were dressed in flashy clothes. They looked at the girl and then at him. One of them had a gun.

  “You gotta book, señor? You give it to me, yes?”

  “No,” Darby said.

  “You better,” the man replied harshly. “Hurry up quick now, or I’ll shoot!”

  The fighter hesitated, his jaw set stubbornly. This time there was Mary to think of. “If we give it to you, do we both go?”

  “Si. Yes, of course. You give it up and you go.”

  Without a word, Darby handed over the diary. The two men turned instantly and got in their own car.

  “Well,” Mary said, “that’s that. We had it and now we don’t have it. Art Renke is just as much in the clear as ever.”

  * * *

  DARBY WAS LED through the crowd toward the ring. The place was packed and smoke hung in the air around the suspended lights. Coming through the stands, Darby and his second skirted a group of men and ran face-to-face with Fats Lakey. Fats grinned evilly; sweat ran down his neck. He wagged his finger. “Next fight, country boy…next time you fight you’re gonna make me some money.” He laughed and dodged back into the crowd. Darby knew what that meant. They would try to make him take a dive. His jaw tightened.

  Darby tried to clear his mind. That was in the future, maybe. Tonight was what he had to worry about now.

  Benny Barros was shorter than Darby McGraw by three inches. He was almost that much wider. He was certainly more than three inches thicker through the chest.

  He was a puncher and built like one. Portuguese, and flat-faced, with a thick, heavy chest and powerful arms. He came into the ring wearing red silk trunks, and he didn’t smile. He never smiled. When they came together in the center of the ring, he kept his eyes on the canvas, and then he walked back to his corner and they slipped off his robe, revealing the dark brown and powerful muscles of his torso. He looked then, with his flat, rattlesnake’s eyes, at Darby McGraw. Just one look, and then the bell sounded.

  Barros came out fast. He came out with his gloves cocked for hooking, and he moved right straight in. Darby’s left was a streak that stabbed empty air over Benny’s shoulder. Benny’s right glove smashed into McGraw’s midsection and Darby turned away, hooking a left to the head.

  Both men were fast. Darby felt the sharpness of Barros’s punches and knew he was in for a rough evening. He jabbed, then hooked a solid blow to the head, and Benny blinked. His face seemed to turn a shade darker and his lips flattened over his mouthpiece.

  Between rounds Dan Faherty worked over Darby. “Renke’s here,” he said. “So is Fats.”

  “I know. I wish I had that diary, though,” Darby said. “We’d have them both in jail before the night is over.”

  The bell sounded for the second round and he walked out. Again Barros came in fast. He feinted and threw a high right that caught Darby on the chin. Darby took a quick step back and sat down. The crowd came to its feet with a roar and Darby shook his head, fighting his way to one knee. The suddenness of it startled him and he was badly shaken.

  He got up at seven and saw Barros coming in fast, but Darby stabbed a left into Benny’s mouth that started a trickle of blood. However, the punch failed to stop him. He got to Darby with both hands, blasting a right to the head and then digging a left into his midsection just above the belt band on his trunks. Darby jabbed a left and clipped Barros with a solid right to the head.

  Darby stepped away and circled warily, then, as Barros moved in, he stabbed a left to the face and hooked sharply with the same left. Barros ducked under it and came in, slamming away at his body with both hands. Barros’s body was glistening with sweat and his flat, hard face was taut and brutal under the bright glare of the light. A thin trickle of blood still came from the flat-lipped mouth, and Barros slipped another left and got home a right to Darby’s stomach that jerked a gasp from him.

  But Darby stepped in, punching with both hands, and suddenly Benny’s eyes blazed with fury and triumph. Nobody had ever slugged with Benny Barros and walked away under his own power. The two lunged together and, toe-to-toe, began to slug it out. Darby spread his feet and walked in, throwing them with both hands, his heart burning with the fury of the battle, his mind firing on the smashing power of his fists.

  He dropped a right to Benny’s jaw that staggered the shorter man and made him blink, then he took a wicked left to the head that brought a hot, smoky taste into his mouth, and the sweat poured down over his body. The bell clanged, and clanged again and again before they got them apart.

  Benny trotted back to his corner and stood there, refusing to sit down while he drew in great gulps of air. The crowd was still roaring when the bell for the third round sounded and both men rushed out, coming together in mid-ring with a crash of blows. Darby stabbed a wicked left to the head that started the blood from Benny’s eye, and Barros ducked, weaved, and bobbed, hooking with both hands. Benny moved in with a right that jolted Darby to his heels. McGraw backed away, shaken, and Benny lunged after him, punching away with both hands.

  Darby crumpled under the attack and hit the canvas, but then rolled over and came up without a count, and as Barros charged in for the kill, Darby straightened and drilled a right down the groove that put the Portuguese back on his heels. Lunging after him, Darby swung a wide left that connected and dropped Barros.

  Barros took a count of four, then came up and bored in, landing a left to the body and stopping a left with his chin. The bell sounded and both men ran back to their corners. The crowd was a dull roar of sound, and Darby was so alive and burning with the fierce love of combat that he could scarcely sit down. He glanced out over the crowd once and saw two thin, dark men sitting behind Renke, and one of them was leaning over, speaking to him.

  Then, as the bell rang, he realized one of the men was the man who had taken the diary. He knew he was lagging, and he lunged to his feet and sidestepped out of the corner to beat Barros’s rush, but Benny was after him, hooking with both hands. Darby felt blood starting again from the cut over the eye that Faherty had repaired between rounds, and he backed up, putting up a hand as though to wipe it away. Instantly, Barros leaped in, and that left hand Darby had lifted dropped suddenly in a chopping blow that laid Benny’s brow open just over the right eye. Barros staggered, then, with an almost animal-like growl of fury, he lunged in close and one of his hooks stabbed Darby in the vitals like a knife.

  He stabbed with a left that missed, then hit Darby with a wicked right hook, and Darby felt as if he had been slugged behind the knees with a ball bat. He went down with lights exploding in his brain like the splitting of atoms somewhere over the crowd. And then he was coming up from the canvas, feeling the bite of resin in his nostrils.

  The dull roar that was like the sound of a far-off sea was the crowd, and he lunged to his feet and saw the brown, brutal shadow of Barros looming near. He struck out with a blind instinct and felt his fist hit something solid. Moving in, he hit by feel, and felt his left sink deep into Barros’s tough, elastic body. He swung three times at the air before the referee grabbed him and shoved him toward a corner so that he could begin the count.

  Darby g
ot the fog out of his brain as Benny Barros struggled up at the count of nine. McGraw saw the brown man weaving before him and started down the ring toward him. The Portuguese lunged in, throwing both hands, and Darby lifted him to his tiptoes with a ripping right uppercut, then caught him with a sweeping left hook as his heels hit the canvas. Barros stumbled backward and Darby stepped in, set himself, and fired his right—the money punch—just like in the old days when he didn’t know any better. Except now it was perfectly timed and he had the perfect opening. Barros went over backward, both feet straight out. He hit on his shoulder blades, rolled over on his face, and lay still.

  The referee took a look, then touched him with a hand, and walking over, lifted Darby McGraw’s right hand. Darby wobbled to the ropes and stood there hanging on and looking.

  There was a wild turmoil at the ringside that suddenly thinned out, and he could see men in uniforms gathered around. Then Dan was leading him to his corner and Darby shook the fog out of his brain.

  “What happened?” he demanded, staring at the knot of policemen. Over the noise of the crowd he could hear a siren whine to a stop out on the street.

  Then one of the policemen stepped aside, and he saw Art Renke sitting with his head fallen back and the haft of a knife thrust upward from the hollow of his collarbone. Beside him, Fats Lakey was white and trembling, and there was blood all down his face from a slash across the cheek.

  Mary was up in his corner. “Come on! Let’s get you out of here!” Darby gathered his robe around him and she led him, his knees weak and uncooperative, back to the dressing room.

  Darby was just getting his focus back when Dan came bursting through the door. “It was the White Fence that got Renke,” he said, “at least that’s what the police think.”

  “The man in the cafe!” Mary gasped. “He must have been a friend of the Lopez brothers and called them!”

  “Art Renke’s dead,” Dan said. “They just slashed Fats for luck. I’d heard they’d been suspicious, and when Beano was killed, it probably made them more so. Smoke may have told them something, too.”

  Darby McGraw let Dan unlace his gloves. “Who do I fight next?” he asked.

  “You rest for a month now,” Dan said. “Maybe more. Then we’ll see.”

  “Okay,” Darby said, smiling, “you’re the boss.” He looked at Mary. “Then we’ll have time for a show, won’t we? Or several of them?”

  She squeezed his still-bandaged hand.

  “We will,” she promised. “I’ll get the car.”

  He stopped her at the dressing-room door and took her chin in his right hand, tipping her head back.

  “Thank you,” he said seriously, “I’d thank Beano Brown too, if I could.” He kissed her quickly then, and headed for the showers.

  BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS

  * * *

  WHEN THE BURIAL was complete, she rode with her son into the hills.

  The Go-log tribesmen, sharing her sorrow for their lost leader, stood aside and allowed her to go. Lok-sha had been a great man and too young to die.

  Only in the eyes of Norba and his followers did she detect the triumph born of realization that nothing now stood between him and tribal control. Nothing but a slender woman, alien to their land, and Kulan, her fourteen-year-old son.

  There was no time to worry now, nor was there time for grief. If ever they were to escape, it must be at once, for it was unlikely such opportunity would again offer itself.

  It had been fifteen years since the plane in which she was leaving China crashed in the mountains near Tosun Nor, killing all on board but herself. Now, as if decreed by fate, another had come, and this one landed intact.

  Shambe had brought the news as Lok-sha lay dying, for long ago the far-ranging hunter had promised if ever another plane landed, he would first bring the news to her.

  If the fierce Go-log tribesmen learned of the landing, they would kill the survivors and destroy the plane. To enter the land of the Go-log was to die.

  It was a far land of high, grass plateaus, snowcapped mountains, and rushing streams. There among the peaks were born three of the greatest rivers of Asia—the Yellow, the Yangtze, and the Mekong—and there the Go-log lived as they had lived since the time of Genghis Khan.

  Splendid horsemen and savage fighters, they lived upon their herds of yaks, fat-tailed sheep, horses, and the plunder reaped from caravans bound from China to Tibet.

  Anna Doone, born on a ranch in Montana, had taken readily to the hard, nomadic life of the Go-log. She had come to China to join her father, a medical missionary, and her uncle, a noted anthropologist. Both were killed in Kansu by the renegade army that had once belonged to General Ma. Anna, with two friends, attempted an escape in an old plane.

  Riding now toward this other aircraft, she recalled the morning when, standing beside her wrecked plane, she had first watched the Go-log approach. She was familiar with their reputation for killing interlopers, but she had a Winchester with a telescopic sight and a .45 caliber Colt revolver.

  Despite her fear, she felt a burst of admiration for their superb horsemanship as they raced over the plain. Seeing the rifle ready in her hands, they drew up sharply, and her eyes for the first time looked upon Lok-sha.

  Only a little older than her own twenty-one years, he was a tall man with a lean horseman’s build, and he laughed with pure enjoyment when she lifted the rifle. She was to remember that laugh for a long time, for the Go-log were normally a somber people.

  Lok-sha had the commanding presence of the born leader of men, and she realized at once that if she were to survive, it would be because he wished it.

  He spoke sharply in his own tongue, and she replied in the dialect of Kansu, which fortunately he understood.

  “It is a fine weapon,” he said about the rifle.

  “I do not wish to use it against the Go-log. I come as a friend.”

  “The Go-log have no friends.”

  A small herd of Tibetan antelope appeared on the crest of a low ridge some three hundred yards away, looking curiously toward the crashed plane.

  She had used a rifle since she was a child, killing her first deer when only eleven. Indicating the antelope, she took careful aim and squeezed off her shot. The antelope bounded away, but one went to its knees, then rolled over on its side.

  The Go-log shouted with amazement, for accurate shooting with their old rifles was impossible at that range. Two of the riders charged off to recover the game, and she looked into the eyes of the tall rider.

  “I have another such rifle, and if we are friends, it is yours.”

  “I could kill you and take them both.”

  She returned his look. “They,” she said, indicating the others, “might take it from me. You would not, for you are a man of honor, and I would kill you even as they killed me.”

  She had no doubt of her position, and her chance of ever leaving this place was remote. Whatever was done, she must do herself.

  He gestured toward the wreck. “Get what you wish, and come with us.”

  Her shooting had impressed them, and now her riding did also, for these were men who lived by riding and shooting. Lok-sha, a jyabo or king of the Go-log people, did not kill her. Escape being impossible, she married him in a Buddhist ceremony, and then to satisfy some Puritan strain within her, she persuaded Tsan-Po, the lama, to read over them in Kansu dialect the Christian ceremony.

  Fortunately, the plane had not burned, and from it she brought ammunition for the rifles, field glasses, clothing, medicines, and her father’s instrument case. Best of all, she brought the books that had belonged to her father and uncle.

  Having often assisted her father, she understood the emergency treatment of wounds and rough surgery. This knowledge became a valuable asset and solidified her position in the community.

  As soon as Anna’s son was born, she realized the time would come when, if they were not rescued, he would become jyabo, so she began a careful record of migration dates, grass co
nditions, and rainfall. If it was in her power, she was going to give him the knowledge to be the best leader possible.

  Lok-sha was sharply interested in all she knew about the Chinese to the east, and he possessed the imagination to translate the lessons of history into the practical business of command and statecraft. The end had come when his horse, caught on a severe, rocky slope, had fallen, crushing Lok-sha’s chest.

  She had been happy in the years she’d spent as his wife, certainly she was better off than she would have been as a refugee in the civil war that gripped much of China or as a prisoner of the Japanese. But as happy as she had learned to be, as safe as she had finally found herself, Anna never forgot her home, nor ceased to long for the day when she might return.

  Now, her thoughts were interrupted by Shambe’s appearance. “The plane is nearby,” he said, “and there are two men.”

  Shambe was not only Lok-sha’s best friend, but leader of the Ku-ts’a, the bodyguard of the jyabo, a carefully selected band of fighting men.

  They rode now, side by side, Kulan, Shambe, and herself. “You will leave with the flying men?” Shambe asked. “And you will take the jyabo also?”

  Startled, Anna Doone glanced at her son, riding quietly beside her. Of course…what had she been thinking of? Her son, Kulan, was jyabo now…king of six thousand tents, commander of approximately two thousand of the most dangerous fighting men in Asia!

  But it was ridiculous. He was only fourteen. He should be in school, thinking about football or baseball. Yet fourteen among the Go-log was not fourteen among her own people. Lok-sha, against her bitter protests, had carried Kulan into battle when he was but six years old, and during long rides over the grasslands had taught him what he could of the arts of war and leadership.

  Her son jyabo? She wished to see him a doctor, a scientist, a teacher. It was preposterous to think of him as king of a savage people in a remote land. Yet deep within her something asked a question: How important would baseball be to a boy accustomed to riding a hundred miles from dawn to dusk, or hunting bighorn sheep among the highest peaks?