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. There 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 theBenton 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!"
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 theBenton 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 theBenton 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 theydid 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.
Unconsciously, Cowan had wandered back to the jetty. He stopped, staring at the dark blobs--freighters on Paagumene Bay. Much more was at stake out at the Oland Point home of Isola Mayne and her brother than appeared on the surface. A sailing list, in the hands of the Japanese submarine commanders, might disrupt the whole military line of supplies with the Far East. Whichever enemy got it--either the Japanese or Besi John Mataga--did not matter much with Cowan. Either way it would be disastrous.
Mataga was on the island, and somewhere nearby was Koyama. Mataga's apparent lack of interest in the list had not fooled Cowan. He knew the man too well. Besi John,besi being Malay for "iron," would make his own attempt in his own way, and Mataga would strike with utter ruthlessness.
Cowan took his cigarette from his mouth and snapped it into the bay. He could do nothing here. Oland Point was where the answer would be.
He dropped into the rubber boat and paddled out to the amphibian.
Opening the door of the cabin, he stepped in. A light flashed suddenly in his eyes and a fist smashed out of the darkness and knocked him to his knees. Someone struck him a vicious blow on the head, then another.
Through a fog of pain he struggled to hold himself erect, he heard Mataga's harsh voice.
"Lash the beggar!" Besi John growled. "We got a date at Oland Point."
Cowan struggled, trying to shout. Then something crashed upon his skull and he fell forward into a foam of pain that ate into and through him.
IT WAS ALMOST day when he opened his eyes again. The plane was still in the air. Struggling to master his nausea, he tried to reason things out. Still in the air?
He struggled to rise, but an arrow of torment from his head made him fall back, helpless. But not before he had discovered that he was tied hand and foot.
His brow furrowed, he tried to grope his way back along the trail of semiconsciousness. Something had happened--
Memory of it was veiled in the mists, in the half-lights of awareness after he had been struck down. How long, he could not recall, yet something had happened. There was a dim recollection of lapping water, a strange dream of firelight dancing upon a dark hull, a mutter of motors, aircraft engines, and the murmur of voices.
He remembered, vaguely, through darkness and clouds, a round hump, like that on a camel's back.
Somehow, that dark hump stood out in his mind, forcing itself always into the foreground. He had a feeling of having seen it before.
Finally he opened his eyes, and knew that he had passed out again. The plane was resting on the water. He could hear waves lapping against the hull.
He rolled over, and tipping his head back, Cowan looked around the cabin of the plane. Sitting in the h
atchway, with his legs dangling toward the water was a huge and heavily tattooed Malay. Seeing that he was, for the moment, unobserved, the pilot tried to move his hands. They were bound beneath him and the tightness of the ropes was cutting into his wrists but more painful than that was a seam in the folded metal of the aircraft...a seam that just might have a sharp enough edge to free him!
Moving with the slight swell of the water under the craft, Steve Cowan shifted until the ropes lay across the seam, and then, very slowly, he began to saw up and down. How long he worked he did not know but the progress was horribly slow. He felt strands of the rope part, but when he twisted his wrists they seemed just as tightly held. Dispirited, he glanced up and noticed the native in the door watching him with a knowing sneer on his face...and the Malay watchman was a man he knew!
Yosha was a tough from the oil fields in Balikpappan, a man noted for his viciousness and dishonesty. With a war on it was not surprising that he and Besi John had washed up on the same shore.
"So, y'get away, eh?" Yosha stood and started aft, his blocky body filling the fuselage of the plane almost completely. "We see about tha'." He drew a parang from its bamboo sheath and took a step toward Cowan. In that instant, a woman screamed. Wildly, desperately, a cry of mortal anguish came from somewhere on shore!
Yosha stiffened, glancing back toward the aircraft hatchway, startled.
Steve Cowan lunged. He hit the Malay with his shoulder, toppling him over backward. Yosha swung but the plane was too small a space to effectively wield the machete-like parang and the blade scraped sparks along the aluminum skin of the craft. The tip hit a rib in the metalwork and the weapon jumped from his grip.
Yosha's big hand grabbed for the handle of the weapon, as his other clutched at Cowan's shirt front.
Cowan jerked back, tearing the thin garment from the grasping hand. Both men lunged to their feet. Steve Cowan, quicker in reaction, smashed his head forward into Yosha's face in a frantic "Liverpool kiss." Yosha stumbled back and Steve jerked at his bindings, growling in frustration and fear.
from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004) Page 5