Treasure Mountain (1972) (6 page)

We went up a few wooden steps to a small dock by the river.

All was still. No lights shone from this dock. From the neighboring dock, an open window cast a gleam of light upon the dark, swirling waters of the river. A boat was tied there, bumping against the underpinning of the dock, and on the shore a man waited. A dark man in a striped shirt that fit tightly over powerful muscles.

By the sound of his French he was a Cajun. He led the way down to the boat, and then we pushed off. There were three other men in the boat. I balanced myself on a thwart amidships and watched them hoist the small brown sail. There was little wind, but we caught what there was and moved out on the dark water.

We were off to find Orrin. Please God, he'd be alive.

"Quietly," the Tinker said, "it must be done quietly. They have more friends close by than we."

"You have a blade?" The man in the striped shirt asked.

"I do," I said, and no further words were spoken as we moved out along the river.

The night was still and warm. My mouth felt dry, and I was uneasy in the boat. I was at home in a saddle, but not here. My hand went again to the knife.

Chapter
VI

The wind died, lost in the surrounding trees and brush. The only sound was the chunk of the oar at the stern. The water shone a dull black. Overhead a few stars showed themselves faintly in the ribbon of sky the trees permitted us to see.

We passed several boats tied up along shore, all dark and still. Twice we passed cabins where lights still showed, and from one came drunken arguing and shouting. We moved on, ghostlike, along the bayou.

I wondered if Orrin would be alive. There was small chance of it, although the Tinker, who had access to much information, believed he was.

I shucked my coat, wishing I had left it behind, but there had been nowhere to leave it. A man did not appear coatless in the evening at the Saint Charles.

"Not much further," someone said, and I touched the haft of my knife.

Orrin lay bound in the darkness. Now and then a spider or a daddy longlegs crept over his face. His shirt was soaked with perspiration, even where it had been stiff with blood. He needed a drink desperately, but the men who held him prisoner could not care less about his comfort.

They believed he knew something, believed he was after gold. Not for one minute had they bought the idea that he was only looking for information about his father. Somehow, something he had said had blown the lid off. He had frightened them. He didn't doubt that they intended to kill him when they had their information, so he had stalled, watching for a break.

They did not know his strength or agility. They had no idea of his skill with weapons and he had done nothing to lead them to believe he was anything more than a lawyer, a deskman.

He hadn't been taken in by Fanny Baston. She was beautiful, but there was something else about her, some unhealthy air that disturbed him. He had been careful. Every step of the way he had been sure that no one was behind him, that he was always ready. He had not suspected his drink ... not so soon.

Actually, although wary of trouble, he had not expected it. They were fishing to see what he knew, of that he was sure, and he suspected that when they decided he knew nothing they would bid him good night and that would be the end of it.

From the first, he had known that his mention of Pierre frightened them.

Obviously, something had happened on that western expedition that they did not wish known. That in itself was peculiar because jurisdiction would be hard if not impossible to establish, witnesses impossible to obtain.

From the idle talk over dinner, before things became serious, he had heard Philip mentioned several times. And Philip, he gathered, was well-off. Philip had also been close to Pierre. Whether they were blood brothers he had not grasped, but it was clear that there was a bond of affection between them.

The knockout drops were unexpected. All had been casual. Andre was at the table ... so were Paul and Fanny.

The drug was in the coffee, which was strong enough to cover the taste, and within a few minutes after he drank the coffee he realized he was in trouble.

But by that time his movements were slowed, his coordination affected. He tried to get up, but Andre contemptuously shoved him back into his chair. The last thing he remembered was their faces as they sat around watching him with casual disinterest, almost boredom, as he faded out.

Something was happening. A boat bumped against the side of the houseboat and men came aboard. There was low argument, orders, men running. Suddenly the door to the hatchway descending into the hold where he lay was opened. A lantern held high found him with eyes closed. The hatch closed again, and he heard the bar drop.

He could only guess what was happening. Either they were leaving here or they were expecting someone, and it appeared to he the latter.

In the bilge there was a little black, dirty water slopping about. Several hours before, Orrin had worked loose one of the boards, then another. He had been soaking the rawhide that bound his wrists in this water, and the rawhide was slowly stretching. Already he could detect some looseness ... just a little more.

Now he hooked a slightly loosened cord over a nail projecting from where he had removed the board, and he began to tug.

Sweat broke out on his forehead and his body. The rawhide cut deeply into his wrists, but he continued to work and strain. Nothing happened, but the rawhide did seem a little looser. Again he lay listening, his bound wrists in the water.

He could hear rats rustling somewhere forward. So far they had not come near him. Given time, they would.

Above, all was still. How many men were aboard? There had been two, but now there must be at least four, and they were waiting ... waiting in the darkness, armed and ready.

It had to be Tell, of course.

If anybody was coming to help it had to be his brother, for there was no one else. Tyrel was far away in New Mexico, and none of the others were anywhere around as far as he knew.

Rousing himself, he strained against the rawhide. Then he hooked it over the nail again and chafed it against the nailhead. The minutes passed. He worked, strained, tugged against the nail, and soaked the rawhide. He tried to turn his wrists inside the thongs, and they turned, ever so slightly.

Something furry brushed near him and he made a violent movement of repulsion.

The rat went scurrying. He hooked the thong over the nail again and jerked and tugged. Suddenly, something gave. The strain on his wrists slackened. He shook his wrists, twisted them, and the thongs came free.

He brought his hands around in front of him. His wrists were raw and bloody, the cuffs on his shirt were bloodstained. He opened and closed his hands--they worked.

Swiftly, he went to work on his ankles. Topside all was still ... he must remember that. In this quiet they could hear any unusual movement. He had no weapon, but he stood up slowly, making a noose of the rawhide. The piece from his ankles was all of five feet long. He tucked it into his belt and picked up one of the loose boards.

Not heavy. About six feet long and one by four inches. Not what he would like, but useful. He stretched his muscles and moved closer to the hatch. There was a door, then four steps to the deck. He moaned ... then again.

There was a stir topside. He grunted, thumped the deck, and then he heard soft footsteps. He heard fumbling with the hasp on the outside of the door, then a low call. "Hurry, Jake! Here they come!"

The door opened and the man with the lantern leaned forward and extended the lantern, peering into the dark hold.

With all the force he could muster, Orrin smashed him in the face with the end of the board, driving it with two hands, like a lance.

The man screamed and toppled over backward, his lantern falling, breaking, and spilling kerosene all over the steps. Flames sprang up, but Orrin leaped over them and lunged up the steps.

Somebody out on the water yelled, "Back off! Back off!" There was the roar of a shotgun. Orrin lifted the fallen man from the deck, slammed him against the bulkhead, and ripped a gun and a knife from his belt. He knocked the man sprawling and ran for the rail.

A huge man rushed around the corner and Orrin struck out with his fist, the fist that gripped the knife. The blow was wild, but it connected solidly, and he cut back and down with the blade. He felt cloth tear, heard a grunt of pain. A teeth-rattling blow caught him on the side of the head.

Orrin staggered, swung again, and then, knife still in hand, went over the rail into the water. Meanwhile, he was conscious of several gunshots, and a second bellow of the shotgun.

He came up in the dark water, felt the smack of a bullet on the water near him, then went under, turning at right angles. But he had seen the boat, and he struck out for it, swimming strongly.

His head came above water, and he said, "Tell!" in a low but carrying voice.

Instantly, the boat turned toward him. He dove, coming up on the far side. He grasped the gunwale of the boat. He saw the mast, several men, and light reflected on gun barrels. In the houseboat beyond, flames were leaping from the hatch and they could see men running with buckets, trying to put out the fire.

"Tell?" he whispered again.

"Orrin, damn you, when you get in be careful where you set. I got a new suit-coat folded on that seat, yonder."

Hands helped him in, and then the oar began, sculling the boat further away on the dark water. Orrin's head still buzzed with the blow he had received, and the raw flesh on his wrists was stinging with salt from the water.

"Anybody got anything to drink? I haven't had a swallow since morning time."

Somebody handed him a bottle. He drank. "Burgundy," he said, "but a poor year."

"What happened to you?" I said. "You've been missing for days."

Orrin chuckled, drank again, and said, "Well, you see there was this girl--"

"I met her."

"I'll bet. But did you ever see that house she lives in? All white, with pillars yet, and great big oaks all around, and lawns, and--"

"What happened?" I repeated.

"We had a nice drink, and then dinner. By that time I wanted to return to the hotel. We had coffee and when I came out of it I was on that houseboat yonder and they were asking me questions about Colorado--about something hidden there.

"What could I tell them? All we're looking for is pa, but they wouldn't believe that. They beat me around a little, but not near as much as you did a few times back home when we were tussling. They figured on using some red-hot irons next time, so I decided it was time I left."

He drank again. "I've heard of southern hospitality, but this is going too far."

A little breeze came in from the sea and we hoisted our sail. I picked up my coat and held it in my lap.

Setting there in the boat, I listened to the low rumble of talk between the men.

Somebody had warned the men on the houseboat and they had been waiting for us.

Only the scream of the man Orrin hit had warned us. As it was, they had shot too soon when we were still only a shadow on the water, and their old-fashioned guns had scattered shot too quickly.

Despite our precautions, we had been followed. Somebody had seen us leave, and they had brought word to the houseboat by some shorter route through the bayous.

Had Orrin made his break an instant later we'd have been within sight and range, and some of us, perhaps all, would be feeding the fish and the 'gators.

"Tell," Orrin edged closer in the boat. "We've stirred up more than we know.

There's been something lying quiet down here ever since pa disappeared, and we've upset the applecart."

"We'd better leave," I suggested. "It ain't worth getting killed over. Not just to find out what happened twenty years ago."

"Before we leave we'll make a call on Philip Baston. I think he could tell us something."

Well, we could do that, but I wanted to leave. New Orleans had always been a favorite town for me, but this time we just weren't likely to have much fun.

Yet what had happened those long years ago? And what did it have to do with us, and with pa? Somebody wanted to keep us from stirring muddy waters, but they also suspected we were here for some other purpose than hunting for pa.

Nobody was around when we tied our boat to the old dark wharf and came ashore.

The Tinker and Tomas, the man in the striped shirt, walked along with us to the Saint Charles.

It was almost daybreak and there was nobody about, and I was just as pleased.

Neither me nor Orrin looked like anybody you would expect to see at such an elegant hotel, but nobody saw us as we came in.

We'd slept maybe an hour when there was a discreet tapping on the door. It was Judas Priest. "I've drawn a bath," he said, "and if you will, gentlemen, take no more time than you need. Meanwhile, I will brush and press your clothing."

"What's up?"

"The law," he said gently. "The law will wish to talk to you. I suggest you look and talk as innocently as possible. It is easier to get into prison here than to get out, and Andre Baston still has friends in town."