“Who did I get?” Deke demanded, looking up quickly. Then he grinned wryly. “As if I didn’t know!”
“Shadow,” Carson confessed, “you’ll be up on Shadow!”
“Highbinder’s the worst horse,” Bly said casually. “Whoever heard of Shadow?”
“I did.” Murphy clipped the words. “I’ve seen him buck. Highbinder won’t touch him.”
“As if you knew,” sneered Bly, his eyes cold.
“I do.” Deke snapped the words. “I rode him!”
“What?” Bill Bly put an open hand to Deke’s chest and pushed, backing him up. “Why, you little liar! You—”
Deke’s balled fist smashed him in the mouth and the big man staggered. Then Bly straightened, his eyes utterly vicious. “Now you’ve done the wrong thing!” he said. “I’ll beat your head in!”
Bly rushed, swinging. His right was a long arc that encountered nothing but air. Deke Murphy rose inside of Bly’s arms and landed a series ofshort, wicked punches to the stomach and ribs. Bly clinched and hurled Deke back into the corral fence with sheer strength, then charged.
Again Deke, working coolly, went under the blow, and again he smashed away at Bly’s ribs with those strength-sapping short punches. This time he ducked away before Bly could clinch, and when Bly swung a left, Deke caught it on his right forearm, and chopped down with a wicked punch to the big man’s chin.
Bly blinked, he was bleeding from his split lips, and stared confusedly through the sweat and his hanging hair at the much shorter man.
“You want some more?” Deke asked calmly. “Or have you had enough?”
Deke looked him over coolly, then turned and walked away. As he drew near to Carol he paused. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want trouble!”
Bly shook his head to clear it and stared after him. “Jailbird!” he sneered. “Highbinder was never rode but once! In prison!”
Deke’s face was white and still. He turned, and his voice was low but clear. “That’s right,” he said, “that was where I rode him!”
AS HE HEADED for the stable, staring grimly ahead, Deke passed close by two men whom he did not see. Jerry Haskell and Cass Kubela watched him go. “It’s him, all right,” Cass said. “The Boss was right. It’s the kid!”
“He knows us,” Haskell said.
Kubela’s eyes were cold. He took the cigarette from his lips and dropped it into the dust. “Not for long!”
CARSON STOOD BY, watching Deke bathe his face and hands, smoking quietly. When Deke had dried himself he looked at Carson.
“Now you know, I was in prison.”
“Knew it all the time. I even knew your stepfather.”
“You what?”
“Sure. Knew your ma, too. He wasn’t a bad man…just didn’t stop rustling when it went out of style.”
Tim Carson smoked thoughtfully. “Son, at the trial you said you knew the men who robbed that train, but you wasn’t with them. You named Cass Kubela an’ Jerry Haskell.”
“Right.” Deke waited, curiously.
“Now I’ve never seen those hombres. Until that job they always worked east of the mountains. Would you know them again?”
“I reckon I would.”
“How about their boss? You said at the trial you didn’t know him but that he was Jud Kynell. Folks thought you were coverin’ up. Were you?”
“No. Robber’s Roost covered miles, an’ outlaws used to work back an’ forth from the Hole in the Wall to the Roost an’ clean down over the old horse-thief trail to the border. We heard about a lot of men we never saw. Jud Kynell was around when I was a kid. He’s some ten years older than me, as I figure it.”
“Know anything about him?”
“That’s about all, except that he did this; rodeoin’ I mean. That and he wears my brand.” Deke explained about what he had overheard, and his belief that the outlaw wore a deep scar on his chest. “There was an awful lot of blood for a scratch,” he finished. “I figure it ripped pretty deep.”
“That’s an item.” Carson was thoughtful. “Son, I got a tip that Kubela was headed this way, ridin’ with another man.”
“Haskell, most likely.” Deke looked at Carson. “You better watch it. Those two are killers.”
“I know.” Carson got up. “Kid, can you sling that gun you’re wearin’?”
Deke smiled. “Some…what have you got in mind?”
“I’m goin’ to swear you in as a deputy. Everybody figures I’m no longer an officer…you see this?”
The older man held forth a wallet containing a badge and some papers. “Deputy U.S. Marshal. It’s my theory those two were comin’ here, an’ comin’ to meet their boss, get that gold an’ hightail it out of the country. I trailed those boys to the vicinity of Forlorn Hope Spring in the foothills of the Opal Mountains, an’ I’d bet that gold ain’t cached more than a few miles from there.”
BILL BLY’S RIDE on Highbinder was something to see, for the big red horse was a fighter, and Bly, say what one would of the man, was a rider. They went out of the chute like a miniature explosion and the red horse leaped for the sun. He landed and swapping ends he let go with both hind feet, almost standing on his head.
Then he settled down to a wild, unrestrained and wholly murder-minded job of bucking. Eyes rolling, the beast went to work with a will, but when the whistle blew Bly was still on deck.
Bly walked back to the chute with the crowd’s roaring cheers around him. It had been a great ride, a wicked ride. As he passed a small group of men not far from the chute, he saw Jerry Haskell. The lean-faced man nodded toward the opposite end of the arena, and tapped his pistol butt.
Bly walked on to where Shadow, an evil-eyed grulla, was being saddled for Deke Murphy, who perched on the side of the chute. Deke dropped into the saddle as Bly glared up at him. “Nice ride!” Deke said. “Too bad Highbinder was feelin’ sort of poorly!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Bly snapped.
Deke’s head came up with a jerk and his mouth opened in astonishment. Those words!
“You ready?” Red Roller glared at him. “Better get your mind on your business, boy! This one’s a fighter!”
“I’m ready!” Murphy was suddenly grim and cold. “Give ’im air!”
Shadow was a horse with a mission. He hated men, all men, but he reserved a special and bitterly vindictive brand of hate for those who tried to ride him. He came out of that chute like a rattlesnake with the DT’s and went to sunfishing.
He jumped straight up, all four legs hanging and his back bowed like an angry cat. Hitting the ground he went straight up again as if lifted by a charge of powder.
Deke hung on as the horse twisted his whipcord body sharply to the left. Switching and humping, that bronc went to work to give the crowd a show and to beat his rider into submission. He bucked straightaway, seesawing wickedly as he jumped, and contorted his back and writhed his spine.
He headed north with a wicked forward jump, then sprang straight back and swapped ends three times. Deke felt air under him and for one frantic instant thought he was a goner, but then he slapped the saddle with the seat of his Levi’s and the world around him was a crazy quilt of tossing color and blurred shadows where nothing seemed to exist but that writhing, twisting, fighting explosion beneath him.
Somewhere far off he heard a whistle blowing and suddenly the horsemen were tearing toward him.
But Shadow was not through. Shadow had his own ideas about quitting and this was not the time or the place. He swapped ends and headed for the stands on a dead run, with the horsemen swinging to follow.
At the wall of the stands, he swung broadside and hurled himself at the board. Deke, in a long leap, grabbed at the front rail of the stands and left the saddle with a bound, leaving the frustrated, screaming horse behind him to be gathered up by the riders.
Dazedly, he stared around at the cheering crowd, then he managed a grin. He pulled his hat from his head and lifted it, and then as his hand came down, his face went blank with astonishment. Ther
e was a bullet hole through the crown!
Instantly, he remembered.
Shut up, you fool!
Wheeling, he vaulted over the rail and dropped to the ground. His hand felt for his gun, and it was still with him. He started across the arena, walking fast. Bill Bly stood alone, staring at him. Behind Bly, back by the barns, Carson held a pistol on Haskell. Haskell slowly lowered a rifle to the ground. Deke stood there looking at Bly.
SUDDENLY, THE NOISE of the crowd seemed gone, and he stood alone in the sun-washed stillness, his legs spread, staring at the man who faced him. Out of the tail of his eye he saw a man step slightly away from the crowd, partly under cover of the stands. It was Cass Kubela.
“I know you now,” Deke said.
“You’re crazy!”
“Open your shirt then, an’ if you’ve no scar on the left side of your chest, I’ll apologize.”
“Go to the devil!” Bly said viciously.
Between them a cigarette lay in the dust, lifting a thin column of hazy smoke upward. A horse stomped in a chute, and somewhere a child cried in petulant irritation. And then out of the corner of his eye, Deke saw Kubela’s gun coming up.
Kubela’s gun came up, and Deke pivoted on the ball of his left foot and fired from hip level. He felt Kubela’s bullet hit him, and he fired again. The outlaw took a staggering step forward and fell headlong, the gun dribbling from his fingers.
Bly, with a snarl of fury, had grabbed for his gun. As it swung up, Deke came around and fired!
Bly took it standing, a little puff of dust leaping from his gray shirt. Bly stepped forward, seemed to hesitate, then his knees wilted under him and he folded up like a punctured accordion.
Dazed, Deke turned, thumbing shells automatically into his gun. The crowd was pouring from the stands, moving desperately to get out of the way of any more shooting.
Deke’s leg felt numb, and he turned and stared down at it. There was no blood or sign of injury, and then he saw the smashed silver ornament on his belt over his right hip where the bullet had struck and glanced off.
Tim Carson rushed up to him. “You hurt, boy? Did he get you?”
“No.” Deke limped over to Jud Kynell’s body. Bending over, he pulled back the shirt. There on the man’s chest was a ragged white scar made by the muzzle blast of his gun on that night long ago when he and Deke had struggled over it. “Funny, I never figured Bly was my man,” he said. “Not until I heard his voice just before I came out on Shadow.”
“I knew,” Carson said, “in fact we’ve been pretty sure for over a year, but just lacked the right dope on him. Then he talked to Carol today about the holdup, an’ he mentioned it was two hundred thousand. That was kept secret, an’ nobody ever knew but the outlaws an’ the government. Just one man at the mines actually knew an’ he kept his mouth shut. Tyin’ that in with what else we knew, it had to be him.”
CAROL’S HAND WAS on his arm, and he looked down. “You know,” he said, “wearin’ your colors brought me luck, I think.”
“Then why not keep wearing them?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am,” he said, smiling, “that’s not a bad idea…and it’s probably safer to ride when there’s no one shootin’ at you!”
Down Paagumene Way
STEVE COWAN LEANED back against a packing case on the jetty at Paagumene Bay, New Caledonia, lazily watching the shipping. It was growing dark, and would soon be night.
Five ships were anchored in the harbor, all of them with cargoes for American troops. One, her freight discharged, was loading chrome from lighters.
The last rays of sunshine tipped the masts with transient gold. The freighter loading ore would sail tonight. In a few weeks she would be tying up in an American port.
Steve Cowan’s eyes strayed to the amphibian, riding lightly on the darkening water. A little refitting and he could fly her home on furlough, his first since being assigned to Army Intelligence. She was a beautiful plane, resembling the Grumman “Widgeon” but built to certain unusual specifications, laid down by Army designers. Because of that she was much faster and more maneuverable than any ship of her type. Moreover, she was armed like a fighter, and had a small bomb bay, so far unused except for freight.
A few changes to accommodate more fuel instead of the load of bombs she was built to carry, and he could fly her home.
Four years ago he had come out to the Pacific, and they had been four years of unceasing activity. Years that culminated in the Japanese invasion of the East Indies, ending his express and mail-carrying business suddenly and dramatically. Since being commissioned, he had acted as a secret messenger and undercover agent for the Allies.
It would be good to be back in the States again, to walk down the streets, to get away from the heat and humidity, eat a cheeseburger, and have a cold soda or beer.
A boat bumped alongside the jetty and two men clambered out.
“You just get that chrome to the right place at the right time. You get it there, or else.”
Abruptly, Steve Cowan stiffened. He knew that voice! Instinctively, he shrank down further behind the packing case.
“You don’t understand!” the second man protested. “This job is a cinch. It won’t interfere with the chrome deal. We can pick up the classified sailing list from the butler in Isola Mayne’s place. With those Jap credentials we got, nobody’d be the wiser. The Japs’ll pay heavy to get it back. They got to have it for their subs!”
“Yeah?” the voice sneered. “You pull something like that, Meyer,” an odd inflection was put on the name, as if Meyer was being taunted, “Koyama will cut your heart out. Try it and see what happens.”
Something in the tone of that ugly, domineering voice rang a bell of memory in Steve Cowan’s brain.
Mataga!
Recognition brought a start of dismay. Not twenty feet away, on the edge of the jetty was a man sworn to kill Cowan on sight. And Cowan was unarmed.
Mataga was speaking again. “You do what you’re told. All you have to worry about is getting this cargo of chrome to the Japs.”
“Besi John” Mataga in New Caledonia! Steve Cowan’s eyes narrowed. The renegade from the waters around Singapore was not one to stop at anything. Deadly, brutal, and efficient, he had been working with Jap and Nazi Fifth Columnists for several years. When Singapore fell he went to Saigon. When Java succumbed, he appeared in Batavia. Now he was here, in New Caledonia!
As their footsteps receded down the jetty, Steve Cowan got to his feet. If Besi John was here it meant something big was moving. Something infinitely more important than a shipload of chrome. If he was working with Koyama it meant even more, for the Japanese was a leader of the powerful and notoriously evil Black Dragon Society, which had many underground members in the South Seas. And “Meyer”? Could that be Captain Peter Meyer…?
THE EYES OF M. Esteville were amused when Cowan met with him the next day. “But, m’sieu,” he protested gently, “it cannot be! The vessel you speak of is the Benton Harbor, well known to us.” He sighed gustily. “As you say, it is true her master is Peter Meyer, a native of Holland, but he is highly respected here. Your story, if you’ll forgive me, is utterly preposterous!”
“I know Mataga,” Cowan persisted. “And I know what I heard.”
Esteville shrugged. “Undoubtedly Mataga is a dangerous criminal. But here? I think not. It would be too dangerous. A fancied resemblance, no more.”
“Bah!” Steve Cowan’s voice was flat. “I know Mataga. Last night I heard him speaking. As to the other man, he may be your Captain Meyer, or he may not. I know Mataga is here and something’s in the wind.”
“We will investigate.” Esteville stood up, plainly annoyed. “But you are mistaken. Nothing is wrong with that ship. As for your wild tale about the shipping lists, that is fantastic. Even if such information could be obtained, there are no spies in Paagumene.”
Cowan’s eyes hardened. The man’s indifference annoyed him. “I’ve told you. Now do something, or I will!”
<
br /> Esteville’s eyes blazed. “Remember, m’sieu, that New Caledonia still has a government! We are capable of handling our own affairs. Any interference from you will bring a protest to American officials—a protest too strong to be ignored.”
Cowan turned on his heel and walked out. He could scarcely blame Esteville for being doubtful. Cowan’s connection with Army Intelligence was secret and, because of strict orders, Cowan did not dare tell him. After all, Captain Meyer, master of the Benton Harbor, had an excellent reputation and Esteville might feel justified in rejecting such a wild story without proof.
THOUGHTFULLY COWAN PAUSED under a tree and considered his next step. Summing up, how much did he actually know? That the Benton Harbor was the only ship in the roadstead being loaded with chrome, a vital war material, and that she would soon leave for the United States. Also that Besi John, a notorious criminal and Fifth Columnist, was here on shady business.
A shipping list had been mentioned, too, and enemy agents. One of whom was evidently working in conjunction with Japanese submarines, plying along the southern route to Australia. Esteville had said there were no spies and that such a list would be impossible to obtain. Yet Besi John had spoken of both agents and list in a matter-of-course manner. So they did exist. How could Cowan find out more about them?
Then he remembered Isola Mayne.
He had never seen her. Pictures, of course. Everyone had seen pictures of Isola Mayne. She was more than a beautiful woman, more than a great actress. She was a legend.
Three years before, she had abruptly retired and, going to Singapore, had settled down, apparently for life. Then came the Japanese invasion, and Isola, in her own plane, had flown to Palembang, and next to Soerabaja. When she arrived in Sydney she moved the war off the front pages. Then she was gone. She vanished into nothingness.
A few days the world wondered, but with the war, they soon forgot.
Yet Steve Cowan knew where she was. He knew, because he had flown supplies to her plantation on New Caledonia. He had not seen her, but knew she was living there in seclusion. And Isola Mayne’s brother was Port Captain! Married to a French woman, he too had spent time in Singapore, before that La Rochelle, and then relocated to Paagumene. In these places he had held prominent maritime positions. The spy must be one of the servants of his household, one who had managed in some way to steal a copy of the sailing list.
Collection 2003 - From The Listening Hills (v5.0) Page 5