Reilly's Luck (1970) (11 page)

He went outside, and the man at the door put his hand on his shoulder. "That's a good boy. I know how you feel."

"He was all I had. We were all either one of us had."

"Sure, now." The man's voice was husky. "Boy, if you're of a mind to, you can come out to our place. We ain't got much, but you're welcome."

"Thanks. Will Reilly told me what to do if this ever happened."

Val walked away in the darkness and back to the hotel. There were people standing in the parlor talking about what had happened, but they stopped talking when he came up.

"Mr. Peck, can I speak to you?" Val said.

When they had gone into another room, Val took the small packet of money from his pocket. "Uncle Will always told me you were honest, and this here is mine. I don't know what is going to happen, but I wish you would be my banker. Take this, keep it for me, or invest it ... whatever you think best."

Peck hesitated, studying the boy. "Where did you get this, son?"

"It's mine. He wanted me to have everything he had, but he always left this money with me in case we were separated. You know, sometimes folks did not take kindly to his winning."

"I guess not." Peck took the money. "All right, boy. I'll take care of it. I haven't had much luck with money these past years, but it has been the times. I'll care for it like you were my own son."

"He wanted a round stone," Val said, "like a rolling stone. All he wanted on it were the dates, and the words,Here's where Will Reilly stopped last. "

Val went up to the room, and closed the door behind him. He looked at Will's clothes ... all those handsome, beautiful clothes.

He worked quickly, making a small pack of his own belongings, including the six-shooter Will had bought for him. He took down Will's Winchester, checked the load, and placed it ready on the bed, changed into range garb, and went to the window.

After a quick look around he slipped out, went down the slanting roof and dropped his stuff to the ground, then lowered himself to arm's length and dropped. Gathering up his gear he went through the alley and across a dark vacant lot to the back of the corral where the horses waited. There he stopped long enough to belt on the six-shooter.

Somewhere, not too far away, was Henry Sonnenberg. Val considered that. He was good with a gun. Will had seen to that. He had been shooting alongside Will for almost ten years, but he did not think he was ready for Henry. Nor for the others ... but there was time. Will had always advised patience.

He mounted his horse, and with Will's horse on a lead rope, he took the trail out of town. He rode at an easy lope for a short time, and then walked his horse. Just short of daybreak he stopped and rested the horses; after that he mounted Will's horse and rode on.

He kept to the back country, riding west and south. He avoided people, sometimes by turning off the trail, returning to it only when the people had gone by. He knew where he was headed.

It was a small remote log cabin, high in the mountains north of Durango. On two occasions, when drifting through the country, Will and he had spent the night there, and one other time they had stayed a week. At that time they had done some work on the cabin and had explored the country around.

The cabin stood at the edge of a grove of aspens. A spring was nearby, and there were a few acres of meadow for grazing. There were fish in a nearby stream, and plenty of game.

Riding the wild country gives a man time to think, and Will Reilly had encouraged thinking. "You have to be objective, Val," he had said. "That is the first thing a gambler learns. Each problem must be taken by itself, and you have to leave emotion out of it. Be stern with yourself. Don't pamper yourself."

Well, he no longer had Will to guide him, but he had what Will had taught him, and that teaching had been of a kind to give him strength within himself. Will rarely had positive answers, but he always offered the means to arrive at answers.

Val Darrant considered what lay before him. Henry Sonnenberg must not go unpunished. The law would hardly try very hard to find the killer of a dead gambler, and the law in the West was, in most places, still merely local law. If Henry Sonnenberg was to pay for his crime, it was Val's job to see that he did.

Three men had been involved, and Val knew their first effort would be to find Avery Simpson and collect their blood money. With Will Reilly dead, Simpson's misson was accomplished, but some rendezvous must have been arranged for the payoff.

But what was to prevent Simpson returning east by the fastest means possible, and keeping all the money for himself?

Many men had a streak of larceny in their makeup, and it was unlikely that Avery Simpson was free of it. He might simply return to his usual habitat. But he was a shrewd man, and would be cautious, so he would start in the direction of the rendezvous, wherever it had been.

Hickok had seen him in Wichita, but he had left for Hays ... it was likely that contact had been made there, and that might be the rendezvous point. In any event, he had nothing else to go on.

That night, after he made camp, Val practiced his draw, then fixed himself something to eat, and practiced again. He had a natural speed of hand and eye, developed over the years by handling cards and guns, and by juggling several small balls, a practice started by Will. Each night he practiced drawing, but he did no firing, for he was not anxious to attract attention to himself, and had no idea who might be in that part of the country.

In Durango he got a newspaper and found the item Will had made Simpson write. Val himself mailed those letters the first morning after the killing. He smiled at the thought of Henry Sonnenberg meeting Simpson after seeing that item.

Val folded the paper and placed it on the table beside his plate. Then he reached in his pocket for money, and found he had none there. But there was gold in his money belt--in both money belts, for he was carrying several thousand dollars.

He hesitated a moment, then took up the paper and opened it. Using it as a shield, he slipped a hand inside his shirt and took out three gold coins. As he started to place them in his pocket one slipped from his fingers and rolled on the floor.

Several heads turned. Embarrassed, Val got up to retrieve the coin, which had stopped rolling near a heavy boot, stained with red earth. As Val reached for it, the boot moved and came down hard on the coin.

Val stepped back and straightened up, his heart pounding. He had seen Will Reilly face such situations, but he had never faced one himself.

There were three men at the bar, and the foot of the man on the end was on the coin.

"You've got your foot on my money," Val said. "Would you move it, please?"

The man made no move, but he glanced at the others, chuckling. "Listen to that talk. Real gent, ain't he? Now look here, boy. That coin dropped out of my pocket. It ain't yours, it's mine."

A dozen men were watching, their eyes on Val. He was only a boy, but he was wearing a gun, and any man who carries a gun must be prepared to use it.

"There's a twenty-dollar gold piece on the floor, and it belongs to me," Val tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Take your foot off it."

"It ain't yourn," the man said, "but if you can get it, you can have it."

Deliberately, he moved his foot and Val stepped forward to pick up the coin. Instantly, he saw his mistake. As he bent over he saw the man's boot swing for a kick, only inches from his face.

His reaction was instantaneous, from long training. He struck the boot aside even as it swung toward him, and the slap threw the man at the bar off balance and he started to fall, catching himself by his right hand on the bar just in time.

Val stepped back quickly, gun in hand. "Pick it up mister," he said quietly, "and put it on my table."

Slowly the man pulled himself up. The other two had spread out a little. "Put that gun up, kid. We were only funnin'."

"Pick up the money and put it on my table." Val's voice was suddenly cold and steady. He did not want to kill, but he didn't believe he would have to. These were bad men, but dangerous only when the odds were with them. "I'm not funnin'," he added.

The big man stooped for the coin, and then he lunged in a long dive. Val did a boxer's near side-step and brought the barrel of the Smith & Wesson down on the back of the man's head. He went to the floor, out cold.

Without removing his eyes from the others, Val picked up the coin and backed off. Then he went to the bar and paid for his meal. He took up his change and pocketed it.

"You won't get away with this, kid," one of the other men said. "He'll kill you."

Val knew what a good bluff could do. He bolstered his gun and faced them. "How about you? You want to try?"

The gesture worked, for the man very carefully put both hands on the bar, away from his gun. "It ain't my fight," he said hoarsely. "I'm just with him."

Val backed to the door, aware of the quiet-faced man at a table near his own, who had sat watching him. Had he seen that man before? Who was he?

Val stepped out and let the doors swing to. His horses were right down the street. He turned and walked swiftly toward them.

When he glanced back the man with the quiet face was standing outside the saloon, lighting a cigar. Val mounted, and swung his horse.

He reached the cabin on the mountain near dusk, and drawing his horses into the shadow of the aspens, he watched it for some time. There was no smoke from the chimney, no sign of life. When half an hour had passed and it was nearly dark, he rode forward.

There was no horse in the corral, no fresh manure on the ground. He tied his horses and went to the cabin, taking the thong off his six-shooter. He was almost at the door when he noticed it was slightly ajar, and there were dark spots on the split logs that formed the steps. He touched one of them, and it seemed to be damp.

Whoever was in there must have heard him at the corral, and he spoke quietly. "I am friendly. You want to strike a light?"

There was silence.

All was darkness within. For several minutes Val waited, then moved closer. He heard breathing, and stepped up to the door. The breathing was uneven, the breathing of someone injured, he was sure.

With his left hand he pushed the door wide, but nothing happened.

Then deliberately, he stepped in and to the right against the wall. There was no reaction.

"Who's there?" he asked. "Who is it? I am a friend."

There was still no response, and taking a chance, he struck a match.

Beyond the table which occupied the center of the room a man lay sprawled on the floor. A gun lay not far from his hand. The bunk from which he had fallen was bloody.

The match burned down, and Val struck another and lit the coal-oil lantern on the table. Then he went around the table and stared down at the man. The back of his buckskin jacket was bloody, and torn by a bullet. Carefully, Val turned the man over. It was Tensleep.

There was a cut on his scalp that looked to be several days old, and the blood from the bullet wound had dried.

Val straightened up and looked around the room. Tensleep, several years before, had been riding with Henry Sonnenberg, and despite what Val had heard about Sonnenberg, Thurston Peck, and Hardesty, Tensleep might have been one of them.

Never before had Val been faced with anything of this kind, although more than once he and Will had taken care of wounded people. But it had always been Will, decisive and sure, who had taken command and had known what to do.

The first thing was to take care of Tensleep. He straightened the bed, then slid one arm under Tensleep's hips and put the other around his body under the arms, and he picked him up.

Val was strong, but the wounded man was limp, and like a dead weight. Maybe moving him was the wrong thing, but Val got him on the bed, and unbuttoned the bloody shirt. The sight of the wound turned him sick at his stomach.

Turning from it, he put sticks together in the fireplace, started a fire, and put water on to boil.

Then he went outside, stripped the saddles from the horses, and turned them into the corral. He found a stack of hay, scarcely enough for two days, and pitched some to the horses. After that, he carried his gear into the cabin and dumped it on the floor.

The water was boiling, and he carried some of it to the table and with a clean handkerchief he bathed the dried blood away and cleansed the wound as best he could. He made a pad of another of his handkerchiefs and bound it in place over the wound. He did the same at the point of exit, and then washed the blood from the wound on the scalp.

He shaved some jerked beef into a tin and, adding water, made a thin broth. He didn't know whether he was doing the right thing, but Tensleep had been without food at least a day or two, so he tried him with a little of the broth. The wounded man swallowed it, and then accepted more.

At midnight Val prepared his own bed and went to sleep.

Chapter
Nine.

He awoke suddenly, starting from a sound sleep into sharp attention. He stared up at the cabin roof for a moment. Where was he? The cabin in the mountains ... Tensleep ...

He swung his feet to the floor. Tensleep was awake, and was watching him. "I ain't sure who you are,amigo, but it looks to me like you come along at the right time. I'm hit hard, ain't I?"