from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004)

by L'amour, Louis

  A sailor, in plain sight, opened up with a rifle and Cowan knocked him spinning with one shot. Then with bullets from other members of the crew pattering around him, he swung over the rail and dropped Isola and the maid into the water near the catamaran.

  More shots rang out and bullets snipped the water near the slim craft. Luckily the light, just before daylight, was not good, or they would have been slain. He continued to paddle furiously. Soon the freighter was out of sight and the firing stopped.

  The plane was ahead, and Steve Cowan swung in close, then crawled aboard. He helped the girls into the cabin and slid into place behind the controls. After several attempts, he got the motors started and warmed them up.

  When the ship was in the air, he took stock. The freighter below was moving now. They would get out, and get away fast. Soon Cowan noted two other freighters moving. A convoy, ostensibly bound for America, but, in reality, bound for Japan. The traitorous Pierre Esteville had made this possible.

  But even well-laid plans can fail. Cowan swung his ship, and went down in a ringing, whistling dive. Then he opened up with the machine guns. His heavy projectiles blasted the bridge and ripped away the pilothouse windows. The freighter swung suddenly, and turned broadside to the channel.

  Banking the Widgeon, Cowan swooped again. From stem to stern he plastered the freighters with gunfire. Then Isola screamed.

  Cowan turned in his seat, startled. Besi John Mataga was standing in the middle of the amphibian's cabin, the small hatch to the bomb bay swinging on its hinges. As Cowan slid out of the seat and faced him, he sprang.

  There was no choice but to fight, so Cowan met the renegade's rush. He got in one well-placed punch before Mataga closed with him, and the plane dipped dangerously.

  Then they were locked in a furious, bitter fight. The plane was forgotten, there was no time to think, to reason, only to act. Slugging like a madman, he broke away from those powerful, clutching fingers. He smashed a left to Besi John's face, then a right to the windpipe. Mataga gasped, and sat down, then lunged and tackled Cowan and they both fell.

  Through a haze of blood, Steve Cowan saw Isola had taken the controls. Then the renegade lunged for him, knife in hand. Slapping the wrist aside with his left, Cowan grasped it in his right hand, then thrust his left leg across in front of Mataga's and his left arm over and under Mataga's right. He pressed down, and the half-caste screamed as his arm broke at the elbow, and his body lifted and arched, flying over the American's hip.

  The right door had been knocked open, and the maid had been trying, vainly, to get it closed. Besi John's body caught in the doorway and then slipped through. He grabbed at the sill, desperately, and his fingers held for one breathtaking moment.

  With a kind of dull horror, Steve Cowan saw Mataga tumbling down, down, down toward the waters of the bay. When he hit, a fleck of white showed, and he was gone.

  Cowan turned, drunk with fatigue and punishment. Isola, her hair free in the wind from the open door, was flying the plane. She looked up at him suddenly, and smiled.

  He looked down. A long, slim destroyer was sliding past Neangambo Island. Another was off Tonnerre Point in the distance. Evidently the situation was under control.

  He collapsed, suddenly, upon the floor.

  When he opened his eyes, the ship was resting easily on the water. He looked up. An officer in the blue and gold of the Navy was standing over him.

  "All right, old man?" the officer asked, grinning. "You had a rough time of it. We had been checking Esteville, and were suspicious of Meyer. We have him--all of them--in custody."

  Steve Cowan looked up. Isola. He had been wondering whose shoulder his head was lying on.

  "Then," he said, still looking at her, "I guess everything is under control."

  The naval officer straightened. He smiled. The Navy knows something of women.

  "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I'd say it was."

  -

  Backfield Battering Ram

  LEANING ON THE back of the players' bench, "Socks" Barnaby stared cynically at the squad of husky young men going through their paces on the playing field.

  "You've got plenty of beef, Coach," he drawled, "but have you got any brains out there?"

  Horace Temple, head coach at Eastern, directed a poisonous glare at the lean, broad-shouldered Barnaby, editor of the campus newspaper.

  "What d'you care, Socks?" he said. "Aren't you one of these guys who thinks football is overemphasized?"

  "Me? I only think you've placed too much emphasis on sheer bulk. You need some smarts out there, that's all."

  "Yeah?" The coach laughed. "Why don't you come out then? You were good enough at track and field last year."

  "I haven't got the time."

  "Crabapples!" Temple scoffed. "You've got time for more activities and fewer classes than any man on the campus. Editor of that scurvy sheet, president of the Drama Club, Poetry society...Writing that thesis on something or other is the only thing that keeps you from graduating!"

  Coach Temple glanced back at the football field, and instantly he sprang to his feet.

  "Kulowski!" he called. "What's the matter with you? Can't you evenhold a football?" He glared at the lumbering bulk of "Muggs" Kulowski. "Of all the dumb clucks! Kulowski, get off the field. When you aren't fumbling, you're falling over one of my best men and crippling him. Go on, beat it!"

  Muggs Kulowski looked up, his eyes pleading, but there was no mercy in Temple now. Slowly, his head hanging, Muggs turned toward the field house.

  "That guy!" Coach Temple stared after him. "The biggest man I've got. Strong as an ox, an' twice as dumb. We're going to get killed this year!"

  THOUGHTFULLY, BARNABY STARED after Kulowski. The man was big. He weighed at least forty pounds over two hundred, and was inches taller than Socks himself. But despite his size there was a certain unconscious rhythm in his movements. Still, in three weeks he hadn't learned to do anything right. For all his great size, Kulowski went into a line as if he was afraid he'd break something, and his fingers were all thumbs.

  "You cut us a break, Barnaby. All you do is use that sheet of yours to needle everybody who tries to do anything. A lot you've done for Eastern."

  Socks grinned. "Wait until after the Hanover game," he said. "I'm just trying to save you from yourself, Coach. If you get by Hanover, we'll say something nice. I'd like to be optimistic but I've got to call it as I see it."

  BARNABY WALKED OFF the field, heading for the quad. Kulowski was shambling along ahead of him, and something in the disconsolate appearance of the huge Pole touched a sympathetic chord in him. More, he was curious. It seemed impossible that any man with all his fingers could be as clumsy as this one. Stretching his long legs, Socks Barnaby quickened his pace to catch up with Kulowski.

  "Hey, Kulowski, rough going today?" he asked, walking up beside the big fellow.

  "Yeah." Muggs looked at him, surprised. "Didn't know you knew me."

  "Sure," Socks replied. "Don't let this get you down. Tomorrow you'll do better."

  "No," Muggs said bitterly. "He told me yesterday that if I messed up one more time I was through."

  "Can't you get the hang of it?"

  "No." The guy's brow furrowed. "I don't know what's wrong."

  "Well, football isn't everything."

  "For me it is," Kulowski said bitterly. "If I lose my scholarship, I'm finished. And I want a degree."

  "That's something," Barnaby agreed. "Most football players don't care much about finishing. They just want to play ball. But if you lose the scholarship you can always get a job."

  "I've got a job, but the money has to go home." He glanced at Socks. "I've got a mother, two sisters, and a kid brother."

  BARNABY LEFT KULOWSKI at the field house and started across the campus to theLantern office in the Press Building. He was turning up the walk when he saw Professor Hazelton, and he stopped. The two were old friends, and Barnaby had corrected papers for him a few times, and written reviews for
a book page the professor edited.

  "Prof, don't you have Muggs Kulowski in a couple of classes?"

  "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?" Hazelton was a slim, erect man of thirty-five and had been a crack basketballer.

  "An idea I've got. Tell me about him."

  "Well," Hazelton thought for a moment. "He always gets passing grades. He's not brilliant, mostly a successful plodder."

  "How about recitations?" Barnaby asked.

  "Very inferior. If it wasn't for his paper work he wouldn't get by. He's almost incoherent, although I must say he's shown some improvement lately."

  After a few minutes, Socks Barnaby walked on into the office. He sat down at the typewriter and banged away on a story for theLantern . It was several hours later, as he was finishing a letter to a girl in Cedar Rapids, when he remembered that Kulowski was working at the freight docks. On an inspiration, he got up and went out.

  He liked Coach Temple. He and the coach had an old-time feud, but underneath there was a good deal of respect. Knowing a good many of the faculty and alumni, Barnaby had heard the gossip about the coach being on his last legs at Eastern. He had to turn out a team this year or lose his contract.

  The fault wasn't wholly Temple's. Other schools had more money to spend, and were spending it. Yet, here at Eastern, they expected Temple to turn out teams as good as the bigger, better financed schools.

  Temple had a strategy. Digging around in the coal mines and lumber camps he had found a lot of huskies who liked the game, and many of them had played in high school and the Army. He recruited all he could but the teams he fielded were often uneven. This time it was his backfield where the weakness lay. They lacked a hard-hitting offensive combination. Kuttner was a good steady man, strong on the defense, and a fair passer and kicker. Ryan and DeVries were both fast, and fair backs, but neither of them was good enough to buck the big fast men that Hanover and State would have.

  THE FREIGHT DOCK was dimly lit and smelled of fresh lumber, tar, and onions. Socks walked out on the dock and looked around. Then he saw Kulowski.

  The big fellow hadn't noticed him. In overalls and without a shirt, with shoulders and arms that looked like a heavyweight wrestler's, he trundled his truck up to a huge barrel, tipped the barrel and slid the truck underneath, dipped the truck deftly, and started off toward the dim end of the dock.

  Socks walked after him, watching. There was no uncertainty in Muggs Kulowski now. Alone here in the half-light of the freight dock, doing something he had done for months, he was deft, sure, and capable.

  "Hi, Muggs," Socks said. "Looks like you're working hard." Kulowski turned, showing his surprise.

  "Gosh, how did you happen to come down here?" he asked.

  "Came to see you," Socks said casually. "I think we should get together on this football business."

  Kulowski flushed. "Aw, I'm just no good. Can't get it through my head. Anyway, Coach is dead set against me."

  "D'you play any other games?" Socks asked.

  "Not exactly." Kulowski stopped, wiping the sweat from his face. "I used to play a little golf. Never played with anybody, just by myself."

  "Why not?"

  "I guess I wasn't good enough. I could do all right alone, but whenever anybody got around, I just couldn't hit the ball. I couldn't do anything."

  Socks sat around the dock, strolled after Kulowski as he worked, and talked with the big fellow. Mostly, he watched him. The big guy was doing a job he knew. He was not conscious of being observed, and as he worked swiftly and surely, there wasn't a clumsy or awkward thing about him.

  "I had trouble with games ever since I was a kid," Muggs Kulowski admitted finally. "My old man used to say I was too big and too awkward, and he made fun of me. I guess I was clumsy, growing fast and all."

  "Muggs." Socks stood up suddenly. "We need you out there on that field this year. We need you badly. You know where Springer's barn is?"

  "You mean that old red barn out there by the creek?"

  "That's it. You meet me out there tomorrow. Bring your football suit, and don't tell anybody where you're going. We're going to work out a little."

  They settled the time, and then Socks walked back to his room. He knew what it meant to grow fast and be awkward. His own father had been understanding, and had helped him get by that awkward period. But he knew how shy he had been himself, how it embarrassed him so terribly when anyone had laughed.

  SOCKS, IN A faded green sweater and slacks, walked out on the field the next afternoon. He paced off a hundred yards, and then walked back to the cottonwoods that divided the field from the edge of the campus. In a few minutes he saw Muggs, big as a house, coming up, grinning.

  "Hi, Coach!" Muggs said. "What do I do first?"

  "First we try you for speed," Socks said. "No use fooling with you if you're slow." He pointed. "See that stake down there? That's an even hundred yards. You go down there, and when I give you the word, shag it up here as fast as you can."

  Muggs shambled down the field, turned and crouched in a starting position. At the barked command, he lunged forward.

  Socks clicked the stopwatch as Muggs thundered past him, and looked thoughtful. Thirteen seconds, and there was a lot Kulowski didn't know about starting.

  Barnaby dug out the football from his bag of gear.

  He walked over to his pupil.

  "You've got big hands," he said, "and long fingers, which is all to the good. But when you take hold of the ball, grip the thing, don't just let it lay in your hand. Take it between the thumb and fingers, with the fingers along the laces, just back of the middle. Press it well down into your hand with your left. When you pass, throw it overhand, right off the ear. You know all this, but we're going to work on it until it's automatic...until you can do it whether you're self-conscious or not."

  IT WAS ALMOST dark when they left the field. For two hours Kulowski had practiced passing and receiving passes, and he had fallen on the ball until he seemed to have flattened every bit of grass on the field. They walked back toward the field house together, weary but cheerful.

  "You'll do," Socks said quietly. "Don't let anything Coach said bother you. You're big and you're fast. We'll have you faster. All you need is confidence, and to get over being afraid of other people looking on."

  Muggs looked at him curiously.

  "How come you aren't playing football?" he asked. "You seem to know plenty about it."

  "Too many other things, I guess." Socks shrugged. "A man can't do everything."

  THE HANOVER GAME was three weeks away. Sitting beside Muggs in the stands, Socks saw Eastern outplayed by Pentland, a smaller and inferior team.

  It had been pretty bad. Socks glanced at Temple's face as the big coach lumbered off the field, and he didn't have the heart to rib him. Kuttner, battered from sixty minutes of play, looked pale and drawn.

  One thing was sure, Socks decided. Hanover or State would ruin them. Hanover had an aerial game that was good, and as strong a line as Eastern's. Unless something happened to develop a behind-the-line combination for Eastern, an awful drubbing was in the cards.

  DAY AFTER DAY, Barnaby met Kulowski in the field by the red barn, and worked the big guy and himself to exhaustion. Kulowski grinned when he got on the scales. His big brown face was drawn hard. He had lost almost twenty pounds in three weeks of work.

  "Well, the Hanover game is tomorrow," Socks said, watching Kulowski curiously.

  "What d'you think? Want to try it if the coach says yes?"

  Kulowski's tongue touched his lips. "Yeah, I'll try," he said. "I can't do any more than mess it up."

  "You won't mess it up. You're plenty fast now. You've cut two seconds off that hundred. And you know how to use your hands and your feet. If you get out there, just forget about that crowd. Just remember what we've been doing here, and do the same things."

  Kulowski hesitated, staring at Barnaby, one of the most popular men in school. In those three weeks of bitter work, he had come to know him, to
like him, and to respect him. He had seen that lean body lash out in a tackle that jarred every bone in his huge body. He had seen passes rifle down the field like bullets, right into his waiting arms.

  Time and again Kulowski had missed those passes. They had slipped away, or dropped from his clumsy fingers, yet Socks had never been angry. He had kidded about it in friendly fashion, and encouraged him, flattered him.

  Now, Kulowski wasn't missing the passes. He was taking kicks and coming down the field, and fast. Socks had shown him how to get to full speed at once, how to get the drive into his powerful legs. He had shown him how to tackle. He had taught him to use his feet and his hands.

  For the first time, Kulowski felt that somebody believed in him, that somebody really thought he could do something without making a mess of it. Taunted and tormented so long for his size and awkwardness, Muggs had never known what it meant to be encouraged.

  On his end, Socks knew that he had actually done little. Kulowski was a natural. All he had ever lacked was confidence. He liked doing things. He was big, and he was rough. Once confidence came to him, he threw himself into the practice with a will, his movements, day by day, became more sharp, more sure.

  SOCKS STOPPED COACH Temple outside the field house. "Hi, Coach," he said grinning. "Why so glum?"

  Temple scowled. "You trying to irritate me? How would you feel going into that Hanover game without anything good in the backfield but Kuttner? They'll beat our ears off!"

  "Can I quote you on that?"

  "No!"

  Socks dodged playfully backward as Temple rounded on him. "Are you willing to take a chance, Coach?"

  "What d'you mean?"

  "Put Kulowski in there, at half."

  "Kulowski?" Temple exploded. "Are you crazy? Why, that big ox--"

  "I said it was a chance," Socks interrupted. "But I've been working with him, and that boy is good."

  "You'vebeen working with him? What do you know about football?" Temple sneered, yet in the back of his eyes there was a hopeful, calculating expression.

  "I read a book once." Socks grinned. "Anyway, what have you got to lose?"