HOW THEY REACHED the jungle, Steve Cowan never knew. He was aware of moving swiftly, of Isola beside him. When the maid stumbled and fell, he picked her up, almost collapsing after going the last few feet into the jungle. There had been shooting. He distinctly remembered the ugly bark of guns and the white lash of a bullet scar across a tree trunk ahead of him.
“Put me down.” The voice brought him back to awareness. It was the maid speaking. He put her down carefully. Her face was white and set, but she seemed uninjured.
Isola was beside her in an instant. “Are you all right, Clara? If anything happens to you here, I’d never forgive myself.”
“I’m all right.”
Steve Cowan liked the blaze in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid, only angry. His eyes went to Isola.
“I’m Steve Cowan,” he said. Briefly, he explained. “What we’ll do now,” he added, “is anybody’s guess. We’ll have to keep moving until we find a place to hole up. Mataga won’t quit. Especially,” he added grimly, “now that I’m free.”
“You knew him before?” Isola said. Her eyes flashed. “He’s a spy.”
“Two years ago we had difficulties on Siberut, an island near Sumatra.”
They walked on in silence. Despite the maid’s injured ankle and knee, he kept them moving along. There was no time for hesitation, Besi John would work swiftly and shrewdly.
Cowan studied the situation. It could hardly be worse. Esteville would not help him. Nominally the French were in charge, and no American Army officials could interfere without disclosing Cowan’s true status. Whatever was done he must do himself. He checked the magazine of the automatic. Five shots remaining.
“We’ve got to recapture my plane,” said Cowan. “Then I can fly you to Paagumene Bay.” He looked at Isola. “Your butler was a traitor? He was selling you out to the Japs?”
“I guess so,” answered the girl. “He’d been with us for years and we trusted him. Oh, it’s so horrible!”
They reached the edge of the jungle near where the plane was moored. A boat was alongside of the amphibian, and two Malays were seated in it with rifles across their knees. Another one of Besi John’s men was standing in the cabin doorway.
“Well,” Isola said, “it was a good idea.”
Grimly Cowan sized up the situation. Three men with rifles. That chance was eliminated. They found a hollow beneath the roots of a giant ficus tree. It was dark, almost a cave. Cowan handed the automatic to Isola. “You may need this,” he said. “What I have to do, it’s best to do quietly.”
She did not warn him, she did not suggest that he guard himself, but something in her eyes carried a tender message. For an instant her hand was on his arm as she smiled.
“Don’t worry about us,” she said.
STEVE COWAN MOVED swiftly. He knew the jungle too well to be fearful. Even less than Besi John’s imported Malays did he fear the abysmal darkness under the mighty trees. He was familiar with darkness; they superstitiously distrusted it.
There was, he recalled, a radio at the plantation. Since M. Esteville would not help him, he would help himself.
Night had fallen. Yet moving through the blackness under the trees, Steve Cowan knew it would be a help rather than otherwise. He left the jungle, and slipped swiftly from tree to tree across the lawn near the mansion.
The radio room was on the second story. He heard the murmur of voices inside. Then a guard walked along the porch near the railing. Behind the guard was the lattice he intended to use to get to the second floor. He could have waited, but impatience and hot, goading temper drove him on.
The guard, warned by some sixth sense, turned, and Cowan struck like a panther. His left smashed into the man’s windpipe, knocking him gasping against the rail. Then the American chopped him across the eyes with the edge of his hand.
The man fell facedown on the porch, and did not move. His gun had fallen over the rail, but he wore a knife. With the blade in his teeth, Steve Cowan went up the lattice. A man sat at the radio, reading a magazine. Being here, he could only be a Mataga man.
Cowan slid a forearm under the man’s chin, and crushed it against his windpipe. Then with a quick jerk, he wrenched the fellow back over his chair. Dragging him to the floor, Cowan spoke softly.
“Lie still and live,” he said. “Move and you die.”
He reached for a rope, and the native acted. He hurled himself at Cowan, his lips twisted in a snarl. Cowan’s knife blade, held low and flat side down, slashed suddenly. Blood cascaded down the man’s shirtfront, and he slumped to the floor.
Cowan sat down at the radio. For an instant he held the key, then he began to send.
BENTON HARBOR…SS BENTON HARBOR…NEW PLAN…COME AT ONCE.
KOYAMA.
A door swung open and another man appeared. Evidently he was another guard for he uttered a loud shout when he caught sight of Cowan. Then without hesitation he whipped out a gun and fired at the American. The sound of the shot rocked the building, and before the Malay could pull the trigger again, the American threw the knife—low and hard!
It struck! Horrified, the Malay stared at the haft protruding from his stomach. The muzzle of his own weapon sagged as he reached for the knife and tugged it out. Blood gushed, and he fell.
Cowan caught up the gun and sprang into the hall. Two men were charging up the stairs and he sent slugs whizzing at them. Somehow he missed, so he dodged across the hall into another room, slamming the door after him. Then, crouching, he wheeled as bodies smashed against the door. He fired again, once, twice, until the gun clicked empty, and he dropped the useless weapon.
A noise behind him made Cowan turn quickly. A man had come into the window by means of the vines, and Cowan recognized him at once. It was Yosha, the bloodthirsty Malay who had tried to kill him on the amphibian.
Yosha looked bigger than ever. With bared teeth, he leaped at the American. Cowan’s jab missed and he was seized by powerful arms, swept from his feet, and hurled across the room. He hit the wall with a crash but came back fighting, although half stunned.
The Malay met the American with a straight arm and flung him against the wall once more. When Cowan tried a flying tackle, Yosha met it with a smashing knee that knocked him rolling to the floor. A kick to the forehead sent darts of pain lancing through his brain. The Malay was adept in this kind of fighting.
Drunk with agony, Cowan staggered to his feet. He had realized that this battle must be to the death. So he cut loose a terrific left hook which caught Yosha on the chin and rocked him to the heels. But the Malay only snarled, shook his head, and replied with a bludgeoning blow which slashed Cowan across the cheek. Dazed, the American could not avoid the instant attack which followed.
Coolly, but with diabolical fury, the Malay tried to beat him into submission. Yosha had a knife in his belt and evidently meant to use it when he had punished the American to his satisfaction. But Cowan kept his head. He weathered the storm and continued to watch for his opportunity.
At last it came. As the knife flashed out Cowan tried another judo trick. Stepping in, he avoided the thrust, and flipped the blade inward. At the same moment he tripped Yosha. The Malay fell to the floor on top of the knife and rolled over. The knife was sticking out of his chest.
At this instant shots rang out in the direction of the beach. Cowan sprang for the window. He could see stabs of flame as more shots ripped the air. Still dizzy from the pounding he had received, the American cleared the sill and went down the vines outside.
Just what was happening he had no idea, but whatever the diversion, he must make it work to his advantage. Running swiftly, he headed for the woods.
THE RATTLE OF rifle fire down along the beach was growing. He swung away from that direction, cutting deeper into the jungle. Then he reached the ficus. Isola Mayne and the maid were gone!
Shocked, Steve Cowan froze, trying to understand. Isola would not have moved willingly, he knew that. The knowledge was no help. He started for the beach, moving
fast.
The sound of firing had ceased. He slipped noiselessly through the jungle, and stared out. All was blackness beyond the edge of the trees and he could see nothing. He moved out, creeping slowly. Then he tripped and almost fell. He put his hand down. A dead man.
Feeling around in the dark he found a pistol, which he tucked into his belt, and moved on. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and he saw more bodies. There were corpses of white men among them, white men garbed as sailors.
Whatever the cause of the fight, it had been desperate. Out across the water he caught the outline of a Samson post against the sky. Then he knew.
The only ship in the Paagumene Bay with Samson posts had been the Benton Harbor. That meant Cowan’s ruse to make Meyer betray himself had been successful. Peter Meyer had received his message.
Meyer, obviously, had been close by. That told Cowan that he had surmised the double cross Besi John Mataga had planned. Meyer’s arrival had precipitated a battle.
One of Mataga’s sentries must have fired on the ship, and Meyer, fearing a trap, had responded.
Steve Cowan stopped. What now? True, Meyer and Mataga were fighting, but that still didn’t help him. The shipload of chrome would be moving out, and the Japanese master spy, Koyama, was still loose. Also Isola Mayne was gone.
Nothing was settled, nothing was improved. He was free, but apparently helpless. Then he recalled the vague, misty dream of his flight to Oland Point, when he had been a prisoner aboard the plane. How long had they been in the air? He had no way of knowing, but he recalled the camel’s hump, and the dark sky.
The dark hump…Neangambo!
He knew then. A Japanese submarine had surfaced in Nehue Bay. Neangambo was an island in the bay, and the dark hump of the hill and trees could be nowhere else near here. It must be the ship that had brought Koyama.
He worked his way along the shore to the edge of a village and as he had hoped, he found a catamaran. He shoved off and after a moment was alone, and slipping across the dark waters.
IT WAS ALMOST daylight when Steve Cowan, drunk with fatigue and his head throbbing with pain from the beating he had taken earlier, reached the shore opposite Neangambo.
The ship he had seen leaving Oland Point, the Benton Harbor, was there, and not far away, moored to a piling, was his own plane!
Steve Cowan wet his parched lips. All right, this was it. It was the work of minutes to bring the catamaran alongside the Benton Harbor. He paddled around to the bow, moored the boat to the anchor chain, and went up, hand over hand, at the risk of crushed fingers.
The deck was dark and still. He moved aft, slowly. Voices came from the saloon port. He slipped closer, then glanced in.
Peter Meyer, his face sour, sat at one end of the table. Nearby, her hands tied, was Isola Mayne. Behind her was the maid. Koyama sat with his back to the port, and across from him was Besi John Mataga, his face dark with fury.
“So?” Koyama’s voice was sibilant. “You thought to betray us. Explain this, if you will.”
Besi John laughed harshly. “Don’t blame me for that. It was Cowan’s work.” He looked at the stout shipmaster. “Steuben, I think Cowan knew about what happened. You may resemble Meyer enough to fool some, Herman, but you didn’t fool everyone!”
The thin Japanese officer, Koyama, made a gesture of impatience.
“All this is beside the point,” he hissed. “Why did you kill our agent, the butler? The Burma man was valuable.”
“I tell you I didn’t know about it,” shouted Besi John, angrily.
The Japanese master spy’s anger increased. “You are a fool!” he snapped. “For that you will die.” He waved his hand toward the women. “They must die, too. No one who knows our plans must remain alive.”
Another voice, suave and smooth, broke in. “You must not do this, Commander Koyama. Miss Mayne is a famous actress, internationally known. She cannot disappear without causing complications. Better turn her over to my authority. I think I can make her see reason.”
Esteville! The Frenchman was in this with them. All of which explained why the substitution of Steuben for Peter Meyer had been successful. Without hesitation Steve Cowan turned and walked into the cabin.
Mataga saw Cowan first. Trapped and in danger of losing his life, the renegade had been waiting for a chance to escape from the ship. Like a flash he leaped from his chair, darted through another door, and disappeared. A loud splash revealed he had gone over the side.
Steve Cowan was too busy to follow. As Koyama lunged to his feet and whipped out a gun, Cowan raised his automatic and fired twice.
The Japanese officer’s face turned sick, and he fell face forward across the table, dead.
It had happened so suddenly that it was like a slow-motion picture, but almost at once the saloon blazed with shots. Steuben grabbed for his gun, and lunged to his feet, firing desperately. Esteville crouched down, out of sight.
In a haze of powder smoke, Cowan saw Isola and the maid slip out of the door through which Besi John Mataga had disappeared. Steuben was down beside Koyama, now, the smoking pistol clutched in his lifeless fingers. Esteville was hiding behind a table. He had taken no part in the fight and there was no use remaining here any longer. Outside the crew had begun to shout and feet were approaching. So Cowan leaped through the doorway after the two girls, joining them at the railing.
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.”
Night Over the Solomons
He was lying facedown under the mangroves about forty feet back from the sea on the southwest side of Kolombangara Island in the Solomons.
For two hours he had been lying without moving a muscle while two dozen Japanese soldiers worked nearby, preparing a machine-gun position.
Where he lay there were shadows, and scattered driftwood. He was concealed only by his lack of movement, although the outline of his body was blurred by broken timber and some odds and ends of rubbish, drifted ashore.
Now, the soldiers worked farther away. He believed they would soon move on. Then, and then only, would he dare to move. To be found, he knew, meant instant death.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 82