“I’ll find a way,” Cowan declared. He had not mentioned the explosive he’d brought along. “As soon as it’s dark, I’ll slip aboard. You and Ruanne had better go out on the point under those casuarinas. I’ll meet you there. We’ll have to get away fast when we go. The explosion and the flames will be sure to bring the enemy around here thicker than bees around a honeycomb.”
HE SAT DOWN outside the hut, as Sinker Powell had been sitting when Cowan first sighted the man. There he stayed, alternately watching and dozing while Forbes watched. It was a long day. At any moment Besi John Mataga might decide to come ashore. That was what Cowan feared most; for going aboard the ship was an anticipated danger.
NIGHT CLOSED IN SUDDENLY as it does in the tropics. Cowan walked back along the shore with Captain Forbes and Ruanne. When he came to the dugout he stopped.
“Go out on the point about halfway,” he said, “but stay back in the jungle out of sight. This shouldn’t take me long. If I don’t get back—” Cowan hesitated, gazing down at Ruanne—“you’d better go back inland to one of the villages.
“The natives are friendly if you treat them right. Then stay there until this war is over or you find a way out. But I’ll be back,” he declared softly.
They walked on. Cowan loaded the gear he had concealed near the dugout and shoved off.
It was deathly still. No breeze touched the face of the water, no ripple disturbed its surface. Clouds covered the sky. The heat was heavy in the humid, unmoving air. Cautiously Cowan dipped his paddle, and the dugout moved easily through the water.
It seemed a long time before he saw the dark hull of the ship. For an instant he hesitated, fearing a challenge. Then he moved on, with scarcely discernible movements of his paddle. He worked the dugout toward the stern, away from the lighted ports. Except for those two ports, the freighter was blacked out. Even as he watched, their lights flicked out, too.
There was silence, heavy and thick. The dugout bumped gently against the hull. Cowan worked his way alongside with his hands, hoping for a rope line, something by which he could get aboard. There was nothing.
He picked up the coil of line he had brought, adjusted the wrapping on the hook again. Sighting at the dimness where the rail was, he threw the rope. It caught and he hauled it in, testing the line with his weight.
It was now or never. If he fell, there would be no need to shoot him. Sharks would take care of that. As if in answer to his thought, Cowan saw the streak of phosphorescence left by a big fish swimming by. He slipped the band of his carrying sling over his shoulder and went up the line, hand over hand.
He crawled through the rail and crouched there in the stillness. There was no sound, no movement. Treading on cat’s feet, as though part of the night itself, he slipped forward.
Amidships—that was the place. It was most dangerous, as there would be more chance of discovery there and less opportunity of escape. But the casing-head gas was stored there. Its burning would insure practically complete destruction. And this had to be a clean job. Not one Messerschmitt was to remain. A clean job—
A sound amidships made Cowan crouch at the base of a winch. He saw a man walk out on deck, barely discernible in the darkness. The fellow stood there, looking toward the shore. Another man walked out.
“Funny Sinker ain’t got a fire,” one of them said.
“Act your age, Joe,” the other replied. “The Old Man wouldn’t let him have one. Too dangerous.”
“Chiv,” Joe said suddenly, low-voiced, “you think Mataga will give us a square cut on this money? After all, look at the chance we’re takin’.”
“Better forget it,” Chiv whispered uneasily. “We got to string with him. I want mine, but I ain’t no man to cross Besi John Mataga. You see what he done with the second mate? Cut him to pieces with his own knife. The man’s a fiend!”
“Donner’s worse,” Joe said sullenly. “Me, I’m out for the dough. I’m gettin’ mine, see? No wise guy ever crossed Joe Gotto yet. I ain’t so wise to the angles in this part of the world. I’d feel better if I was in Chicago, or Memphis, or the Big Town.”
STEVEN COWAN SLIPPED along the starboard side of the hatch, crouching low. Amidships, he found, as he had feared, that the hatch was still covered. Working swiftly, he took out the wedges, then slid the steel batten from its place. Lifting the corner of the tarpaulin, he got hold of the end hatch cover and slid it slowly out of place, then eased it to the deck.
Swiftly he eased himself into the hole. Pulling the tarpaulin back over him, he went down the steel ladder in the utter blackness of the hold. It seemed a long time before he reached the bottom. Then he was standing on a tier of cargo.
Momentarily Cowan flashed a light. He was standing on a tier of casing-head drums, piled six high. He put the explosive down and coolly spun the tops from a dozen of the drums. Then, as he stooped to adjust the time on the explosive, his flashlight slipped and fell. The glass broke with a faint tinkle on the dunnage below.
For an instant, Cowan crouched in the darkness, his heart pounding. He dared not strike a match, for by now the air around him was filling with fumes of gasoline. For the life of him he could not recall the time for which the bomb was set!
It might be set to go off in three minutes, or five, or an hour. Possibly even a dozen hours. Steve Cowan had planned to adjust it before leaving. Now he had no idea. All that remained was to throw the switch that put the thing to work.
It might blow him up instantly. It might go off before he was out of the hatch. Or off the ship—
It was a chance he had to take. Cowan turned the button and then straightened to his feet. He moved swiftly and his hands found the rungs of the ladder. He went up, quickly and silently.
Pushing back the tarpaulin, he crawled out on deck. A cold voice froze him in his tracks, with one foot under the canvas.
“So? Snooping, is it?”
The voice was Donner’s, and a second later a light flashed in Steve Cowan’s eyes.
He heard a startled gasp, saw the muzzle of a gun.
“Who are you?” The voice was cold, deadly. “Tell me, or I’ll fire!”
“I’m a refugee,” Cowan declared, heart pounding. “I was trying to stow away to get out of here before the Japanese come.”
Someone came out of the passage.
“What’s goin’ on, Donner?” It was Mataga’s voice. Then Mataga saw Steve Cowan’s face. “Well, for—”
“You know this man?” Donner’s voice was deadly. “Get inside off the deck,” he snapped.
When they were in the saloon, Besi John sat on the corner of the table. His gross, hard-bitten face was unshaven, and his small eyes were cruel.
“So, Mr. Steve Cowan. After all these years we get together again!”
Mataga’s face flamed suddenly and animal fury gleamed redly in his eyes.
“Again! D’you hear? And I’m top dog this time! I’ll teach you a thing or two, you dirty—”
“Take it easy.” Donner’s voice was even. “Who is this man?”
“Him?” Mataga’s voice was ugly. “This is Steve Cowan. He’s a tramp flyer. The one I told you about who knew this place.”
“Flyer, eh?” Donner looked at the Yank. “Where’s your ship?”
“Lost it at Palembang,” Cowan lied glibly. “Enemy got in too fast and bombed the field before I could get her off. Blew off my tail assembly. I got away into the jungle and came over to the west coast, headed for Padang or Emma Haven.
“The Japanese beat me to it, so I picked up a boat and sailed her here to Siberut. I saw this freighter and decided to stow away and get out.”
DONNER STUDIED HIM.
“It’s a good story,” he said slowly. “Almost too good. But where is the girl?”
“Girl?” Cowan felt an empty sensation in his stomach. “What girl?”
“The one,” Donner said coldly, “that left this hair on your shoulder!”
Deftly he picked a long golden hair from Cowan’s shirt. Evid
ently it had been left there when he was making his way through the trees beside Ruanne.
“Blond?” Besi John’s eyes were hard. “Why, there ain’t a blonde within miles but that Forbes girl!”
“I think,” Donner said coolly, “we had better tie this man up until we investigate a little further. I found him trying to crawl into the hatch. A minute later and he would have been out of sight.”
He turned.
“Mataga, send a couple of men ashore at once. I don’t like the looks of things.” He hesitated. “I’ll go with you.”
STEVE COWAN, tied to the rail on the starboard side, watched the sky grow gray. At first there had been some sounds ashore, but then the island had settled into silence.
Nothing had happened. Down in the hold amidships the time bomb ticked on. Or had it stopped? Was all his work to be futile, after all? Cowan sat against the rail, gazing blindly ahead of him, weary as he had never been. On the deck, a few yards away, Joe Gotto, the ex-gangster was sitting beside Chiv Laran.
Past them, Cowan could see the open manhole in the deck. He stared, then slowly his weariness fell away. He looked at Joe and Chiv thoughtfully.
“Who opened that manhole?” he demanded suddenly.
Joe glanced up lazily, shifting his rifle.
“That?” He shrugged. “Mataga. He said it would have to be cleaned. He’s as bad as Forbes was. Always cleaning something.”
Cowan eyed the two again.
“You don’t look to me like a sucker, Joe,” he said. “But your side of this deal doesn’t smell so good.”
“Shut up,” Chiv said harshly. “We ain’t turnin’ you loose.”
“You’d be smart if you did,” Steve Cowan declared. “What’s your cut on this deal? You ever think of how much you’ll get—if they split the dough they get for these planes? By the time each of you gets a cut, your end wouldn’t buy you a ticket to a safe port. I know that Mataga. He’d doublecross his own mother.”
Joe looked at Cowan thoughtfully.
“So what? If he don’t collect, we can’t.”
“No?” Cowan glanced at Chiv, who was listening sullenly. “Why is Mataga keeping Forbes alive? Forbes has a cache of jewels aboard this ship, that’s why. Did Mataga tell you that? Or Donner?”
Cowan glanced shoreward, but there was no sign of life.
“Or did they tell you there was a war on? That the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor?”
“Is that straight?” Gotto scowled. “Why, I’d like to—”
“What’s it to you?” Chiv demanded. “The cops run you out, didn’t they?”
“Sure,” Joe argued. “But what the devil! If the Japanese and Nazis take the States, my racket is sunk. I can’t compete with them guys. When I knock over a bank, I want to know there’s some dough in it.”
“I know where the jewels are,” Steve Cowan said quietly, looking directly at Chiv. “We could get them and get out. Let Mataga have his crummy planes.”
“Get out?” Chiv sneered. “You mean swim?”
“No, I mean in my plane. I told Mataga it crashed, but it didn’t. It isn’t ten miles from here. We could grab those jewels, just the three of us, and take it on the lam.”
Joe studied him thoughtfully. Then he glanced sideward at Chiv, whose yellow eyes were narrowed.
“You sound like a right guy,” he said. “I like the sound of it. Anyway, if the Japanese are going to use the planes against our gang, why—”
“What the deuce do you care?” Chiv snarled. “Nuts! I don’t care who gets the planes. I want some dough! I’m no Yank.”
“Those stones are close by,” Steve Cowan hinted. “We haven’t much time.”
“Yeah?” Chiv sneered. “Suppose I let you loose? Then you’d get them! Don’t be a sap! Mataga will be back in a little while.”
“Sure.” Cowan shrugged. “And then you get the dirty end of the deal. You think I’m a sap? Those stones are down in that manhole, Chiv, in a box back in the corner of the tank. That’s why Mataga opened it. That’s why I wanted to know.
“He’s letting it air out a little, that’s all. You get that box and we’ll get out of here.”
Joe said nothing. He glanced at Cowan curiously, shifted his rifle a little.
Chiv got up and looked shoreward. Then he approached the manhole, flashing his light down the rungs of the ladder. It wouldn’t reach to the corner.
“You got that plane, sure thing?” he demanded. “Because, if you haven’t—”
“You got a rod, Chiv, haven’t you?” Joe cut in suddenly. “He’s tied up, ain’t he? If it ain’t there, what do we lose? If it is, we take this guy, still tied, and head for the plane.”
“How does he know we won’t bump him?” Chiv asked. “We could have it all.”
His yellow eyes shifted back to Cowan, and the Yank felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
“I’m the flyer,” Cowan said. “I know where the plane is.”
“All right.” Chiv glanced shoreward again quickly, then he looked at Joe. “Don’t let him try anything funny, see? I’ll be right back up.”
His light thrust in his belt, he started down the ladder.
Joe Gotto sat up a little, watching his prisoner, his eyes very bright. Cowan stared at the manhole. They both heard Chiv slip, heard the hollow thump when he hit the bottom.
Cowan tore his eyes from the manhole.
“Now it’s just us, Joe. You’re a Yank and so am I. Do the Japs get this load of planes to get our boys with? You’re a tough cookie, pal. So’m I. But we aren’t either of us rats!”
“What was it?” he asked. “What happened to Chiv?”
“No oxygen. Those tanks are dangerous. I had an idea that in this heavy air, darned little of that gas would escape.”
He bent over Cowan and hurriedly unbound him. The Yank straightened up, stretching his cramped muscles.
Cowan grabbed up the shotgun dropped by Chiv Laran and ran with Joe to the gangway. A lifeboat bobbed alongside.
“What happened to Mataga?” Joe demanded. In running forward he had picked up a tommy gun from the petty officer’s mess, where it had been left on the table.
“He’s hunting Forbes and the girl!”
Steve Cowan sprang ashore when the boat grated on the beach. Then as Joe jumped down beside him, he shoved the lifeboat back into the water.
Turning, he led the way into the jungle, heading for the point. They had gone only a dozen steps when Cowan stopped suddenly, holding up a hand.
“Listen!” he said. Someone was floundering through the brush, panting heavily. Joe lifted his tommy gun, his eyes narrowed.
“Hold it!” Cowan whispered.
It was Captain Forbes. The old sea dog broke through the brush, his face red, his lungs heaving. His clothing was torn by brambles, and his face and hands were scratched.
“They’re comin’!” he said. “Right behind!”
“Where’s Ruanne?” Steve Cowan demanded.
“At the plane!” Forbes looked bad, the veins in his throat standing out, his lungs heaving. “We found it! I tried to lead them away; they got too close!”
SOMEONE YELLED BACK down the shore. Cowan turned, leading the way toward the mangroves.
“Make it fast!” he whispered. “We’ve got a chance!”
They were almost to the amphibian before Cowan noticed that Joe had not followed. He wheeled and started back. Ruanne stopped helping her uncle in the cabin door.
“Where are you going?” she cried. “Come on!”
“Can you fly?” Cowan hesitated, the shotgun dangling. “If you can, warm that ship up. We’ll be back!”
He turned and plunged back into the jungle. Even as he broke through the first wall of green, he heard the angry chatter of a tommy gun and Joe’s raucous yell, then the sound of more guns. Joe cried out suddenly in pain.
Cowan burst into a small clearing just as Donner and Besi John Mataga, followed by a dozen men, came through on the opposite side. A bullet
smashed by his head, and Cowan jerked up the shotgun. It roared. Donner grabbed the pit of his stomach and plunged over on his face.
Joe Gotto, down on one knee, was raking the killers with his tommy gun. Steve Cowan fired again, and the line broke and ran.
Lunging across the clearing, Cowan swept Joe Gotto to one shoulder and ran for the mangroves. Beyond, the amphibian’s twin motors were roaring music in his ears.
Almost at the same instant, a plane roared by overhead. Cowan glanced up, swearing. It was a Kawasaki. It was circling for a return when Cowan boosted Joe into the cabin and then grabbed the controls.
“Strap him in!” he yelled.
He opened the plane wide and let her roar down the open water, throttle wide. Just short of the trees he pulled back on the stick, and the amphibian went up in a steep climb.
Roaring on over the casuarinas, Cowan gave a startled gasp. A long, slim gray destroyer was alongside the Parawan, and a stream of Japanese sailors and marines were running up the gangway!
Then he pulled back on the stick again just as the Kawasaki came screaming back toward him. Opening the ship wide, he fled; for the enemy was on his tail and his only safety at this low altitude lay in speed.
A roaring chatter broke out in Steve Cowan’s ears. Turning his head, he saw Joe Gotto, strapped in a seat, firing his tommy gun out the port.
The burst of bullets missed, but the Japanese wavered. In that instant, Cowan skidded around in a flat turn, raking the Kawasaki with a quick burst of fire. But the soldier was no fool. Screaming around in a tight circle, he tried to reach Cowan with his twin guns in the nose, while his observer opened fire from the rear cockpit.
A bullet hole showed in the wing. Then Cowan pulled the amphibian on around and climbed steeply. Rolling over before the enemy could follow, he poured a stream of fire into the Kawasaki’s ugly blunt nose.
The engine coughed, sputtered. Then Cowan banked steeply and came back with the son of Nippon dead in his sights. His guns roared. The Kawasaki burst into a roaring flame and went out of sight.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 80