Collection 2003 - From The Listening Hills (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  The black car swung off the highway and took to the woods. He waited an instant, then followed. Ahead of him, the car was stopped. Hastily, he swung his own car into a side road and got out.

  He was almost up to the black car when he heard a slight noise. He moved forward, through the brush, and then he saw Rossaro. The Italian was turning, then recognition caused a sneer to curl his lips. “Well, Moran! I guess you asked for it. Take him boys!”

  Flash tried to turn, then something slugged him, and he staggered. In staggering, he turned. The man he was facing was Makin. Something slammed over his head with terrific force and he fell, tumbling away into an awful, cushiony blackness that smelled strangely of damp earth and pine needles.

  WHEN HE OPENED his eyes it was dark. His head was one great throbbing burst of pain. He got his hands under him and pushed up, then lifted to his knees. He could see the dim marks of a dirt road, and then, overhead, the stars. He got shakily to his feet.

  It came back, slowly. He had followed Rossaro to see who was with him. They must have guessed who he was, or known, and had turned off and led him into this trap. Makin had been one of them, and they had hit him. When he was facing them, Rossaro must have stepped up and hit him on the head.

  He got back to his car. It was there and unharmed. He got in, started the motor, and drove back to his room. When he got to the door, he opened it, staggered in and fell across the bed.

  IT WAS DAYLIGHT when Flash was awakened by the sound of movement. He turned his head and groaned. He heard somebody walking over, and looked up to see Butch Hagan. “What happened to you?” Butch demanded.

  Stumblingly, he told him. Hagan stared at him, then got up and dampened a towel. When he came back he went to work on the cut on Moran’s head. A long time later, when Flash had bathed and shaved, the two men looked at each other.

  “Well,” Butch said, “I’ll admit, they had me doubting. You always got everything Martin threw and missing two passes, the same way, it didn’t look reasonable. Martin swore he put them just as he always had.”

  “You said “they’ almost convinced you. Who did you mean?”

  “Martin and Schaumberg. Both of them said you’d sold out. They said the offer Cramp made you was to fumble or do something to mess up.”

  Suddenly, Flash looked up. “Butch, I got an idea that can save the Tigers. Are you with me?”

  “Yeah,” Hagan said. “I need the dough. I’ll admit, I told ’em I’d think it over. But I’ve got a kid, and—You know how it is, you’ve got to set an example.”

  “Yeah.” Flash leaned forward. “Butch, did you know Deacon Peabody was working at Denton Mills now?”

  “Peabody? Used to be All-American? Why, he was a pal of mine!”

  “I know. Now here’s what I want you to do. We’ve got a week until the game with Cramp’s Bears. Let’s get busy.”

  FLASH CAME DOWN the stadium steps to the box where Pop Dolan sat with Micky. Pop saw him, and his face got red. Micky saw him too. She started to speak, then tightened her lips and deliberately turned her back on him.

  Flash sat down. “Pop,” he said, “it’s nearly game time. In a few minutes you’ll have a crippled team going out on that field for a beating. You’ve only got sixteen men down there, and I know for a fact that two of them have sold out.”

  Pop stared at him, and Micky turned suddenly, her eyes angry, but before she could speak, Flash leaned forward and grabbed Pop Dolan’s arm. “Listen, Pop! I know what they told you. But it was all lies! Give me the word and I’ll have a winning team on that field when the game starts. They’re all here, ready to go!”

  “What do you mean?” Pop demanded. “What kind of a team?”

  “Pop,” Flash said, “you’re a square guy. You got friends. Well, I’ve got them, too. So has Butch Hagan.”

  Flash stood up and waved, and down on the field near the door to the dressing room, Butch Hagan turned and went through the door. Suddenly, there was a roar, and out on the field came the Bears. They were big, and they were the favorites in today’s game, and Flash knew that, even at the odds he had to give, Cramp had bet heavily. The true facts of the Dolan team weren’t out, and the fans still believed in them.

  There was another roar as the Tigers ran out onto the field. Flash was watching Cramp, and suddenly he saw the gambler stiffen and come erect. There weren’t sixteen men out there—there were thirty-five!

  Micky sat up suddenly. “Pop, look! That man with the 22 on his jersey! Why, it’s Red Saunders!”

  “Saunders? But he’s not playing football anymore!” Pop said. “He hasn’t played since he quit the Tigers two years ago to practice law!”

  “And there’s Larry Simmons, twice All-American end! And Lew Young, ex-Navy center, and—!”

  “We’ve got you a team!” Flash said. “We’ve got a team that will win if you give me the word. So what do you say?”

  “Why, son,” Pop smiled suddenly, “I couldn’t make myself believe that you would go back on me!”

  “Then we’ve got a game to play!” Flash said, and slipped away before they could say any more.

  He knew it was a good team. Right now there were more stars on that field than there had been in years. Of course, they hadn’t all played together, but some of them had. Simmons had played on an Army post team, and Lew Young had played with the Navy, and Saunders had just come back from a hunting trip and was in rare condition. It was a chance, and a good chance.

  The Bears had everything in the books. Lon Cramp was out for a title, and he hadn’t spared money. He had a big fullback, a ten-second man named Brogan. And the Bears’ captain was a lad named Chadwick who ran like a ghost. Their other backs, both triple-threat men in college ball, were Baykov and Chavel.

  The line was bigger than that of the Tigers, and they had power to spare. There was a big tackle named Polanyi, an end with long legs and arms who could run like a streak, and was named Monte Crabb. They had others, too. They had Leland, Barnes, Wilson and, at center, Krakoff.

  Red Saunders kicked off for the Tigers and they started down the field. Flash Moran was playing tailback, and he was hanging far back, looking over the team.

  Monte Crabb took the ball on the Bear twenty-five yard line and running behind perfect interference got down the field for twenty yards before Larry Simmons cut in, evaded a halfback and dropped Crabb with a bone-jolting tackle.

  They lined up and Brogan powered through the center for five yards. Then he took the ball again, and hitting the line, went through for three more before they stopped him.

  They drove on until they had rolled the Tigers back to their own ten yard line, but the Tigers were playing good ball. They were getting used to each other, and they were looking over the opposition.

  Brogan started through the line, but Butch Hagan shoved Polanyi on his face in the dirt and hit Brogan with everything he had. Brogan clung to the ball, however, and they lined up with a yard lost.

  The Tigers held them again, held them without the ball moving an inch, and then on the next play the Tigers’ Lew Young and a guard named Corbett hit Krakoff and drove him back on his heels. Krakoff got up mad and took a swing at Young, and Lew, who had been some shakes as an amateur heavyweight, dropped him in his tracks.

  They broke that one up, but Krakoff was mad clear through. He snapped the ball, then drove at Young, and Lew jumped back and Krakoff sprawled forward off balance and Corbett went through that hole and nailed Brogan before he could get out of his tracks. Saunders cut around and as the ball slipped from Brogan’s hands, he nailed it and went to the ground.

  The Tigers had the ball. Higgins called the signals and Saunders took it around the end for five yards, then they snapped it to Flash and he went off tackle for six. They lined up, and Moran took the ball again, and Red Saunders, running like a deer, got off ahead of him. They went down the sidelines, and he was crossing the Bear forty yard line when he was downed by Chavel.

  He was feeling good now, and the team was begi
nning to click. They liked Pop Dolan, and they didn’t like Cramp, and they were out for blood. They weren’t saving themselves for another game because most of them weren’t expecting to play another.

  Flash went around end on the next play and Ken Martin passed. The minute he saw the pass he knew he couldn’t make it. He ran like a wild man, but his fingers just grazed the ball. It went down and Chadwick recovered.

  Flash turned and started back up the field and saw Schaumberg and Ken Martin standing together. He started toward them, and they stood there waiting for him.

  “You deliberately passed that ball out of range!” Flash accused Martin.

  “Moran, you’re a fool!” Martin said. “If Lon Cramp gets this club you stand to make more money than you ever did!” Suddenly Flash was sure he knew who the other men had been that day in the woods. It had been Makin and Rossario…and, in the car, where he could barely be seen, Ken Martin!

  “Yeah?” Moran’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to know a lot about it!”

  “I do,” he said harshly. “I’m going to be the manager!”

  Unseen by Schaumberg or Martin, Red Saunders had come down behind them and stood listening. Suddenly, he stepped up. “Who’s captain of this team?”

  “I am,” Martin declared flatly. “What about it?”

  Red turned abruptly and walked to the edge of the field where he began to talk to Pop. “You get off the field,” Flash told Martin. “Captain or not, you’re finished!”

  “Yeah?” Martin sneered. “You’ve had this coming for a long time!”

  The punch started, but it was a left hook, and too wide. It came up against the padded side of his helmet and Flash let go with an inside right cross that dropped Martin to his haunches. Ken came up fast, and Flash caught him full in the face with one hand then the other! He felt the nose bone crunch under his fist. Then Schaumberg started a punch that was suddenly picked out of the air by Lew Young, who returned it, and Schaumberg went down.

  Pop came out on the field then, and his eyes were blazing. The umpire came up, shouting angrily. There were a few words, and Ken Martin and Schaumberg were rushed off the field.

  THE TEAMS LINED up. Brogan tried to come through the center, but Krakoff had taken a beating by then, and when Young hit him he went back on his heels and Higgins went through after Corbett and they dropped Brogan in his tracks.

  Flash saw Chadwick catch up a handful of dust and rub it on his palms. It was a habit the swift-footed runner had before he took the ball. Even as the ball was snapped, Flash saw Butch Hagan dump his man out of the way. Then he drove through the hole like a streak and hit the red-jerseyed Chadwick before he could even tuck the ball away!

  He knocked Chadwick a dozen feet, the ball flying from his hands. Lew Young was in there fast and lit on the ball just as the pileup came.

  They lined up and it was the Tigers’ ball on the Bear thirty yard line. Flash got away and Saunders shot a pass to him. He took the ball running and saw Brogan cut in toward him. He angled across toward Brogan, deliberately closing up the distance, yet even as the big fullback hurled himself forward in a wicked tackle, Flash cross-stepped and shoved out a stiffarm that flattened Brogan’s nose across his face, and then he was away.

  Chadwick was coming, and drove into his pounding knees, clutched wildly, but his fingers slipped and he slid into the dirt on his face as Flash went over for a touchdown!

  Simmons kicked the point and they trotted back to midfield. Krakoff took the ball on the kickoff but Higgins started fast and came down on Krakoff like a streak. He hit him high and Butch Hagan hit him low, and when they got up, Krakoff was still lying there. He got up, after a minute, and limped into position.

  There was smeared blood on Brogan’s face from his broken nose and the big fullback was mad. Chadwick was talking the game, trying to pull his team together.

  They lost the ball on the forty yard line and Higgins recovered for the Tigers. They were rolling now and they knew it. Flash shot a bulletlike pass to Saunders and the redheaded young lawyer made fifteen yards before he was slammed to the ground by Chadwick.

  Chadwick was the only man on the team who seemed to have kept his head. Wilson came in for Brogan and when they lined up, Butch Hagan went through that line like a baby tank and threw an angle block into Wilson that nearly broke both his legs! Wilson got up limping, and Butch looked at him. “How d’you like it, quitter?”

  WILSON’S FACE FLUSHED, and he walked back into line. On the next play Hagan hit him again with another angle block, and Wilson’s face was pale.

  Flash rifled a long pass to Simmons and the former All-American end carried it ten yards before they dropped him. On the next play Higgins went through tackle for the score.

  The Bears had gone to pieces now. Wilson was frankly scared. On every play his one urge seemed to be to get away from Butch Hagan. Krakoff and Brogan were out of the game, and the Tigers, playing straight, hard, but wickedly rough football, rolled down the field for their third straight score.

  They lined up for the kickoff, and Flash took it on his own thirty-five yard line, angled toward the sidelines and running like a madman hit the twenty yard line before he was downed. They lined up and Saunders went through center for six. On a single wing back Higgins made six more, and then Simmons took a pass from Flash and was finally downed on the five yard line. Then Flash crashed over for the final score, driving through with five men clinging to him.

  And the whistle blew as they got up from the ground.

  FLASH WALKED SLOWLY toward the dressing room, his face mud streaked and ugly. Pop was standing there, waiting for him.

  “You saved my bacon, son,” he said quietly. “I can’t thank you enough!”

  “Forget it,” Moran said quietly, “it wasn’t me. It was those friends of yours. And give Butch Hagan credit. He lined up six or eight of them himself, to say nothing of what he did on the field.”

  He turned to go, and Micky was standing there, her face pale and her eyes large. She lifted her chin and stepped toward him.

  “Flash, I’m sorry. Pop never believed, but for a while, I did. He—Ken—made it sound so much like you’d done something crooked.”

  “It was him,” Flash said quietly. “I’m sorry for your sake.”

  “I’m not,” Micky looked up at him, her eyes wide and soft, “I’m not at all, Flash.”

  “But I thought—?”

  “You thought I was in love with him? That I was going to marry him? That was all his idea, Flash. He never said anything to me about it, and I wouldn’t have. I went with him because the man I really wanted never asked me.”

  “He must be an awful fool,” Flash said grimly. “Why, I’d—!”

  “You’d what, Flash? You better say it now, because I’ve been waiting!”

  “You mean—?” Flash gulped. Then he moved in, but fast.

  Lew Young stuck his head out of the door, then hastily withdrew it. “That Moran,” he said, grinning, “may be slow getting an idea, but when he does—Man, oh Man!”

  A Night at Wagon Camp

  NO HORSES STOOD in the corral, no smoke rose from the chimney. Jake Molina slid his rifle from the boot and rode with it across his saddle.

  The squat, unpainted shack, the open-faced shed, the pole corral, the stock tank filled with water piped from the spring…nothing had changed. It was bleak, lonely, and drought stricken as always.…

  Molina dismounted, careful to keep his horse between himself and the house. Pike should have been here to meet him but there was no sign of life, anywhere. The ranch had been abandoned ten years before, and looked it.

  Rifle in hand he crossed to the house, pausing on the step to turn for one more careful yet uneasy glance.

  The kitchen was empty but for a bare table, and a broken chair that lay on its side. Crossing to the fireplace he turned a charred stick with the muzzle of his rifle, then knelt and put his fingers upon it for an instant. It was cold and dead.

  There were two more r
ooms. Using his rifle like an extension of his arm he pushed open the doors, but there was nothing but a dried-out, sunbaked boot, and a coat that had been dropped on the floor. There was no dust on the coat however, and it lay in a scuffle of recent footprints…in this abandoned place here was something that did not fit, something important to his quest.

  Crossing to the coat he touched it with gentle fingers, and found a piece of board shoved down in the inside pocket. On it something had been scratched with a nail:

  Just rode in, Lew Stebbins—

  Monty Short—a stranger.

  It was signed by Pike.

  He stepped outside and looked slowly around. By now they would be miles from here, for they had not known he was coming. In growing fear he realized what they must have left behind. Grimly, he dropped the coat to his feet and slipped the thong off of his right-hand gun. He listened, and heard only the trickle of water, the wind, and an aimless tapping that came at intervals. The tapping drew him and he walked around the end of the corral toward the shed.

  PIKE WAS SUSPENDED by his wrists, arms spread wide and tied to poles of the shed wall. His chin hung down on his chest, and his toes just barely touched the earth. His shirt had been ripped from his body and his body had been beaten by a length of trace chain which now hung over the top bar of the corral. It was the wind, moving that chain in the hard gusts, that caused the tapping he had heard.

  Pike had been dead for several hours, yet he had lived long enough.…With one toe he had scratched an arrow, pointing west.

  UNTIL HE HAD met Pike, the trails Jake Molina had ridden were ridden alone, for it was his nature to ride alone, to ask nothing of any man but to be let alone. With Pike he had gone up the trail to Kansas, and he knew what Pike would have done for him, and what he must do for Pike. Above all there was Tom Gore’s family to think of, and those neighbors who had trusted him with their cattle.