He knew what was at stake. The Fascists in the Argentine were strong, and they had been increased by refugees from Germany. More than one atomic engineer had escaped to Buenos Aires, and they had been joined by others. There were rumors of money being sent to them from the north to aid the experiments by those interested in the commercial application of atomic power.
The experiments were strictly hush-hush. Even the Argentine Government was supposed to know nothing about them. The presence of a North American here—well, Turk Madden knew the men he was working against.
Baron von Walrath, one of the shrewdest operatives in the former German Military Intelligence; Dr. Walther Rathow, atomic scientist and militarist; Wilhelm Messner, of the Gestapo; and Miguel Farales, of the Argentine Military Intelligence.
Yet they had seen none of these men. Agents had reported nothing. The whole affair had moved so perfectly that he had become suspicious. And the next few hours would tell the story.
Hurrying, he worked along the trail, then rounding a fallen log, he saw there in the soft earth, the mark of a boot! The shape was not distinct in the moss, but the heel print was plain. It could have been made no earlier than the night before.
As he continued along the trail, Turk watched carefully, and found several more footprints, but none was distinct. Yet someone had left their camp, or the vicinity of it, and had come over this trail. Then almost at the plain where he had seen the tracks of the fighter plane, he saw a double footprint. They were apparently of the same foot, and the second one was superimposed on the first, and that second track pointed toward camp! The man had come from the camp, and returned to it!
Following the footprints, he reached the dead campfire. The man he had followed had come this far. He had waited, he had smoked several cigarettes, and then he had returned the way he had come. He had waited here—for the patrol plane!
Leaving the plain, Madden crossed by way of the woods to the range of hills beyond, stepped through the woods carefully toward the cove. He could see the cold seawater lapping on the gravel beach, and he could hear the bump of the launch hull against the small pier.
Then he leaned forward to peer at the gray house. He leaned forward still further and put a foot out to balance himself. A branch under his foot cracked like a pistol shot, and he jerked back.
Then something struck him on the head, and as he toppled forward he heard a pistol shot ringing in his ears!
HE OPENED HIS EYES and saw a hardwood floor, then blood. His own blood. He closed his eyes against the throb of his head and tried to place himself, to remember what had happened.
“Hang it, Stock,” a voice was saying in English, “why did you have to shoot the man? Couldn’t you get the drop on him and bring him in?”
“That guy’s Turk Madden!” another voice said. “I’d know him anywhere. If you ask me, you better kill him. You leave him alive and you’re borrowin’ trouble. I heard of him in China, and the guy is poison.”
“Thanks, pal.” Turk told himself mentally, “but I don’t feel very much like poison right now.”
“We’ve got to keep him alive!” The first voice was crisp and hard. “At least until we know where they are. Messner was to have communicated with us as soon as they landed. They aren’t far from here, we know that, and he has the patrol plane stops. One of them is sure to be close to where they will be.”
“Perhaps, Baron,” said a third voice, suave and smooth, “we can make Madden talk. Timeo has convincing methods.”
“Not a chance!” Madden rolled over and sat up. His fingers touched his scalp gingerly. The bullet had cut a neat furrow along the right side of his head. He looked up. “Unless there’s some money in it.”
He glanced up at the three men. Stock would be the big man with the flat face. The man seated in the chair with the smoothly shaven face and the monocle could be no one but a German. That would be von Walrath. And the other was Latin. Probably Farales.
“Money?” Farales leaned closer. “Why should we pay you money? You have nothing we want.”
“Maybe yes, and again, maybe not.” Turk swallowed. “How about a drink? I’m allergic to bullets. They make me thirsty.”
At a motion from Farales, Stock poured a drink and handed it to Madden. He tossed it off, shook his head, and then got slowly to his feet. There was an empty chair, and he fell back into it.
“I’m a businessman,” he said then. “I’m not in this for my health. If you guys have got a better offer, trot it out.”
He was stalling for time, stalling and watching. Somehow, he had to get out of here, somehow he had to block Messner, whoever he was. Certainly, one of the three men at camp was Messner, formerly of the Gestapo. To think that such a man could be in an American unit, on such a mission. But the man was there. Turk was under no illusions about stopping him. There would be only one way now.
“Who sent you here?” von Walrath demanded. “From what office do you work?”
“Office?” Turk shrugged. He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “I work for Turk Madden. I’m in this for myself. I’m goin’ to get all the dope I can, and sell to the highest bidder.”
“The United States?” Farales asked gently. He was studying Turk through narrowed eyes. “Why should they pay? They already know.”
“Do they?” Madden shrugged again. “But you may find out something they won’t know. Also, they may want to know how much you know.”
“And that’s why you’re here. To find out how much we know. That’s why your government sent you here.” Farales’s voice was silky.
“My government?” Turk raised an eyebrow. “What is my government? I fought for China before I fought for the United States. I fought for them because they paid me well, and because I like the winning side.”
Von Walrath’s eyes were cold. “Then you did not believe we Germans could win? The greatest military power on earth?”
Madden chuckled. “Why the greatest? Who did you ever lick? Nobody I can remember except a lot of little countries who never had a war. It’s like Joe Louis punching a lot of guys who ride a subway. Anybody can lick an average guy if he’s got some stuff. Germany was ready for war, the other countries weren’t. Germany never whipped a major power who was even half ready for war.”
“No?” Von Walrath sat up stiffly. “And why did we lose this one?”
“Mainly because you never had a chance.” Turk warmed to his subject. “Any war can be figured on paper before it begins. You didn’t have the natural resources. You were cut off from the countries that had them. You didn’t have the industry.”
“Next time,” von Walrath replied coolly, “we won’t need it. Atomic bombs change everything.”
“That’s right. The smallest nation has a chance now.”
“Even,” Farales suggested, “Argentina.”
Von Walrath stood up suddenly. “Where is your plane now?” he demanded.
“Around,” Madden rested his elbows on his knees. His .45 was lying on the table not a dozen feet away. “Supposing we make a deal. You slip me a chunk of dough, and I keep my plane out of this? Your man Messner can’t keep it out. I can.”
“And why can’t Messner keep it out?” Farales demanded.
“First place,” Turk looked up from under his eyebrows. He had his feet drawn back and was on his toes now, “because he won’t try. Why hasn’t he communicated with you? I’ll tell you why: because he hasn’t any intention of it. Because he has another deal pending.”
“You lie!” von Walrath hissed furiously. “I will vouch for Messner!”
Turk chuckled. “Listen, you guys. You’re not so dumb. Who will pay most to get the atomic secret now? Who wants it worst? I ask you: who wants it? Soviet Russia!”
He lighted another cigarette. “What do you think they’d pay? A hundred thousand? Yes, and maybe more. Maybe a million. If a man had the secret, he could ask plenty, and get it! What can a poverty-stricken Germany give Messner? What can even the Argentine give M
essner? Would he get a million from them? From you? Not a chance! What can we give your friend Messner?”
Farales’s sardonic black eyes lifted to von Walrath. “He speaks wisely, Señor. What can we give your friend Messner?”
“He lies.” Von Walrath’s eyes were blaring, yet Madden knew he had injected an element of doubt into the Prussian’s mind. “Messner is loyal.”
“Then why has he not communicated with us? He is days overdue.” Farales looked at Madden. “How long have you been here?”
“We landed a week ago,” he lied.
“A week, and still no word. How is this, Walrath?” Farales’s voice was cold. “Four times in that week has our plane been at the prescribed places. And it cannot be far. This man walked.”
“Wait until the plane comes today before you speak. Messner probably has been unable to get away.”
Madden could see that the Baron was uncertain. “There will be word today.”
“No,” Turk said coolly, “there won’t.”
He had been stalling for time. Stock was across the room now, mixing a drink. No one was near the table where the gun lay.
“What do you mean?” von Walrath demanded. “What makes you so sure?”
“Simply,” Turk said, this was going to be close, “because your pilot is dead, and your patrol plane crashed. It’s lying up there,” he pointed suddenly toward the wide window and the Dome of St. Paul, “burned to a crisp!”
As he pointed, their heads almost automatically turned, and he was out of his chair and had made three steps before Farales swung and saw him. It was too late. Turk hurled himself at the table, grabbed the automatic and swung with his back to the table. Farales’s shout brought a crash from Stock as he wheeled, dropping the glass and grabbing for his gun. Turk shot him in the stomach, and then wheeling, he hurled himself, shoulder first, through the window.
It was no more than six feet to the ground. The instant he hit he flattened against the building and ran along it close to the wall until he reached the end of the house.
The shore there was high, lifting in a straight bank at least ten feet above the shelving gravel beach. He jumped off the bank to the gravel, landing on his feet, and fell back into a sitting position.
As he fell backward, he saw a man on the motor launch grab a rifle, and he blasted with the Colt from where he sat. The bullet hit the cabin of the boat and laced a white scar across its polished side. The man fell over, and then the glass crashed as the fellow thrust the rifle through a cabin port. Turk was on his feet then, but he wheeled and put two quick shots through that port, and then he was running.
He had made a dozen steps before a rifle cracked and a shot hit the rocks ahead of him and whined viciously away over the water. He zigged right, and then dodged back, and seeing a cut in the bank, dropped behind it just as several more shots struck nearby.
He paused just an instant, caught a quick breath, and then ran up the cut. Ahead of him it ended near a cliff and the forest came up to the foot of the cliff. Yet there he would have to dodge across twenty feet of open country before he could make the forest.
“That German is a shot, or I miss my guess,” Turk told himself. “He’ll have his sights set on that open place, and I’m a dead pigeon!”
Yet even as he reached the end of the water cut, he saw there was a deep hollow and another water drain that fell sharply away. The water that had made the deeper hole had fallen off a corner of the cliff around the shoulder. Perhaps he could get across.
A huge root thrust itself out, and sticking his gun in its holster, he jumped. It was a terrific leap, but his hands just grasped the root, and he swung with all the impetus of his leap and hurled himself at the bank opposite.
He hit it, chest first, and grabbed wildly at the edge. Dust and rock cascaded into his face, and suddenly a rifle barked, and a shot smacked into the bank right between his clutching hands!
Frightened, he gave a mighty heave and hurled himself over the edge and rolled into the woods. A bullet clipped a tree over his head, and he scrambled to his feet and floundered away in the knee-deep moss. Then he saw a fallen log and, leaping atop it, he ran its length, swung by a branch to another, and ran along it.
It wasn’t going to be enough to get away. He had to lose them. Yet on one side was the plain, and if pushed into the open they would cut him down in an instant. On the other side was the river.
His breath was coming in great grasps, and his lungs cried out with pain at the effort. Yet he kept on, for speed meant everything now.
He had crossed a small clearing and was entering the woods along the river when suddenly another shot rang out, and he plunged headfirst into the soft, yielding moss. The shot had come from in front of him!
Turk Madden was mad. Suddenly, something had seemed to burst inside of him. The traitor, whoever he was, was up ahead, trying to kill him.
“All right!” Madden said suddenly, savagely, “if you want it you can have it!”
He slid the Colt into his hand. Four shots left. He felt in his pocket for the extra clip. Well, they hadn’t taken that! Flat in the moss, he began to worm his way through the damp green softness, gun in hand, a fierce, leaping rage within him.
He crawled, and he felt the moss thinning. Was the watcher keeping an eye on him? This guy knew a thing or two, as he was the same one who had dusted the brush so thoroughly on that first day. There was a crashing in the brush back the way he came. Wish he’d shoot some of his own men!
Another crash and then he could hear someone breathing hard. The man had stopped to stare around. Slowly, Turk gathered his knees under him, and then he straightened.
The man, a huge fellow with a blackish, greasy face, was not ten feet away!
As Turk arose, the fellow stared stupidly, then gave a gulp and jerked up the rifle. He was much too slow. Turk put a bullet through his heart, then sprang across the ten feet of space, and grabbed the man’s rifle. Then, without hesitating, he threw the rifle to his shoulder and dusted the woods, firing ten shots and spacing them neatly across the forest behind him.
THEN HE DROPPED the rifle and plunged down to the gravel shore of the stream. For thirty minutes he twisted and turned in the woods, and then finally straightened out and headed for home. As he walked, he exchanged clips.
As he came up to the shelter, he found Shan Bao, a carbine in his hands, standing by the door.
“Where are the others?” Turk asked.
“They all went out into the brush. Thought we might be attacked.” Shan Bao looked at Madden’s head, and the blood. “You have had trouble,” he said. “I hope you killed the man who did that.”
Turk dug out a cigarette and lighted it. Then he looked at the Manchu.
“I don’t know, Shan, but he’s got one in the stomach he wishes he didn’t have!”
Runnels came out of the woods. He looked flurried, and his eyes were narrow. He glanced at Turk’s head.
“Looks like you had it tough!”
“Plenty!” Turk snapped. “Better get your gear aboard the plane. We’re moving!”
“Moving?” he frowned. “Winkler won’t like that. Better wait to see what he says. After all this is his show.”
“Up to a point,” Turk Madden replied shortly. “That happens to be my plane. Anyway, they came too close just now. They’ll be back. We can’t stay here.”
“And why shouldn’t we stay here?” It was Major Winkler. His face was hot and his eyes looked angry. “I heard what you said, Madden, and we’re staying, whether you like it or not.”
“No,” Turk replied shortly, “we’re not. At least, I’m not. I’m taking my ship and getting out. I’m going back in the hills until tomorrow, back where we’ll all be safe!”
“You’ll stay right here.” Winkler’s carbine lifted, and Turk cursed himself for a fool. “You’ll stay here, and like it. Panola, tie him up! This is mutiny. I’m in command here. We’re in no danger, and we’ll stay right here until tomorrow.”
; “I don’t believe the gun is necessary, Major,” Runnels protested. “Madden will stay.”
“You bet he’ll stay!” Winkler declared sharply. “I’ll personally see that he stays. Tie him!”
Runnels looked at Panola, and the Italian shrugged, then he stepped forward and jerked Turk’s hands behind him. Yet even as Panola tied his hands, Turk knew the officer was not tying him tight. Was it because he sympathized or because he hoped he would try to escape, and be shot escaping?
Tied on his bed, Turk relaxed and lay quiet. How soon the Baron would find them, he couldn’t guess. Obviously, it couldn’t be long. The possible areas now were so limited, for they knew he had come from some place within walking distance, which meant no more than ten miles, or perhaps a bit more. It was rough, rugged country, but they would be looking.
Working a little, he loosened his ropes. Major Winkler had been lying down for several minutes now, and Runnels was sitting in the door.
Panola was nowhere in sight. Had he gone to warn von Walrath and finally to make contact? Yet somehow, Turk found himself doubting that Panola was the guilty man. But even that left only Runnels and Winkler, and Winkler was in command. He would be blamed for the success or failure of the effort.
Winkler got up suddenly and walked outside. He said something to Runnels about being nervous.
“Nothing must happen now,” he muttered.
Turk lay still. His hands were free. Now where was Shan Bao? He drew his knees up and worked on the ropes on his ankles. Runnels still sat in the doorway. There was no sign of Panola or Major Winkler.
He put one foot down beside the cot, then turned carefully and sat up. Runnels had not moved. His head lay against the door post, and he was apparently asleep. Turk got up and in two quick steps had crossed the room to his carbine.
He picked up a handful of extra clips and thrust them into his pockets. He retrieved his automatic and more ammunition, then he stepped over to the back wall. In a few minutes he had worked his way through the branches and leaves of the shelter and stood outside.
A shot rang out, and he heard a muffled curse, and then he saw men come streaming into camp. He had made it none too soon. He saw Runnels start up and then go crashing down as he was struck by a gun butt. Then they charged inside, and he heard a shout as they failed to find him.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 68