Reilly's Luck (1970) (2 page)

There was a lost and wistful look about him, but there had been no tears, at least there were no traces of any now. He looked--well, he looked pretty much as Will Reilly might have looked at that age.

Will Reilly was an immaculate and coldly handsome young man who had the reputation of being an honest gambler--and no man to trifle with. He had had his bad times and his good, but he knew cards and he knew men, and he won much more often than he lost.

His father had been killed in a boiler explosion in Pennsylvania when Will was fourteen, and for the next six years he had worked as a common laborer, moving from job to job until he discovered he could do better playing poker. He had begun it on the jobs where he worked, moved from them to the river ports, and finally to the cities, and on to the Isthmus of Panama, South America, and then California and the mining camps.

"We will have breakfast, Val, and then we will decide what to do." He put on his coat and straightened it. "What's your name, Val? I don't believe it was ever mentioned."

"Valentine. Ma said my pa's name was Darrant."

"Darrant? Yes, that could be. Well, you've got some good blood in your veins. I knew Darrant, and he was a good man, a brave man."

Will straightened his cravat, trying to remember what he knew of Darrant. He had been a French-Canadian of good background, an educated man, to judge by his conversation, and a traveled one. He had been a soldier, but Reilly had no idea when or where, and briefly he had operated a newspaper. Like many another man in the mining camps, Darrant was looking for a rich strike, but somewhere along the line he had vanished from the picture. It was unlikely he knew he had a son.

Val was quiet at breakfast. He liked the tall, easy young man who talked so readily yet took the time to listen to him, too. Reilly talked of his steamboat days on the Mississippi and the Missouri, and Val listened with rapt attention.

There were few people in the dining room. Several of them spoke to Reilly and all looked curiously at Val.

Reilly presently fell silent, thinking of the problem. He was a gambling man, drifting from town to town as the occasion demanded, and he had no idea what to do with a small boy, but he had no idea of shirking the responsibility that was suddenly his.

His anger at Van had departed quickly. Undoubtedly the man had shrunk from abandoning the boy, and he had brought him to the one strong person he knew that he felt he could depend on.

Myra was a tough-minded, hard-souled wench who had chosen her life's work from preference, and neither of them should have anything to do with rearing a child, especially a sensitive boy like this.

Reilly considered the people he knew who might perhaps be equipped for the job, but he came up empty. The local minister was a fire-and-brimstone gospel-shouter who saw evil in all things, and who would never allow the boy to forget who his mother had been.

Ed Kelley, a good man with three children, had a wife who was ailing.

After three days had passed, Will Reilly was no closer to a solution. The boy had the run of the hotel, and was liked by everyone. And a curious fact brought itself to Reilly's attention. The arrival of the boy coincided with a consistent run of luck that left him a substantial winner. The pots he had been winning had not been large, but they had been several percentage points higher than was reasonable.

He was a gambler who knew to perfection the odds on filling any hand he might pick up, and he played according to those odds, so when anything unusual happened he was aware of it at once. Will Reilly was not a superstitious man, but neither was he one to fly in the face of providence.

On the morning of the fourth day, Loomis, who operated the hotel, stopped him on his way to breakfast. "Will, the Reverend was inquiring after the youngster. He declared you were no fit man to have a child, and I think they're fixing to take him from you."

Will Reilly was nothing if not a man of quick decision.

"Thanks, Art. Now about that buckboard of Branson's? Did you ever find anyone to drive it back?"

Art Loomis was not slow. "I can have it hitched up and out back waiting, Will. I'll even pack for you."

"I'll pack. You get the buckboard hitched, and while you're at it, stop by Ferguson's and buy a couple of bedrolls for me and about a hundred rounds of .44's. I'll also need a camp outfit."

Dunker would know all about the boy. The Reverend had preached the funeral sermon for Mrs. Schmitt. The Reverend Dunker's allies would be Mrs. Purdy, and probably the wife of Elkins, who operated the Ferguson Store. Elkins himself was a good man, but Reilly had no use for the Purdys, for Mrs. Elkins, or for Dunker. There was little of the milk of human kindness in any of them.

He stepped out into the brisk morning air and paused briefly in front of the hotel. Because of the early hour, there were few people about. He turned abruptly toward the store.

Jess Elkins got up when Reilly walked in, and from the expression on his face Reilly knew that he himself had lately been under discussion.

"I'll need some warm clothes for the boy," he told Elkins. "You have a nice town here, but it is cold this time of year."

"Yes, sir. He's about four, isn't he?"

"He's about five. Give me four sets, complete. And he'll need a warm coat and a cap."

Elkins glanced up at him. "You sure you want to spend that much? After all, he isn't your boy."

"In a sense he is." Will Reilly was not one to hesitate over lying in a good cause, and it would give them something to worry about, something that might keep them in doubt until he could get away. "The boy is my nephew."

"Nephew?"Elkins was surprised. "But I thought--"

"You thought he was Myra Cord's boy? He is, of course, but his father was Andy Darrant, my half-brother. Andy asked me to care for the boy. That was why Van Clevern brought him to me."

He paid out the money, and gathered up the parcel and started for the door.

"You're Darrant's half-brother? Why, I never--"

"Be in tomorrow," Reilly said. "There's some other things I need for him. Tablets, pencils, and such."

He walked quickly back to the hotel, his boots crunching in the snow.

It was very cold, too cold to be starting out in the snow on a long drive. And if it snowed any more the buckboard would be a handicap. But he had his own ideas about that, and when he reached the lobby he glanced around. It was empty, and there was no one at the desk. He walked right through to the back door.

Art Loomis was coming in from the back. "Everything is ready, Will, but if I was you I'd hole up right here. It looks like more snow."

"Can't be helped. The wolves are breathing down the back of my neck, Art."

"Ain't you even waitin' until dark?"

"No. As you say, it may begin to snow. Art, if they come around asking questions tell them I said something about driving out to Schmitt's to pick up some clothes for the boy."

It required only a few minutes to pack, and Loomis took the trunk down the back stairs himself. Then Reilly bundled Val into the seat and tucked a buffalo robe around him.

"Good luck, Will," Loomis said. "You'd better look sharp until you're over the pass."

"Thanks."

"Will?" Art Loomis was staring at him. "Why,Will? Will you just tell me why?"

Will Reilly looked at the horses' backs for a moment and then he told the truth. "Art, I never had a kid. I never had anybody, never in my whole life. This is a fine boy, Art, and I figure he came to me for a reason."

He slapped the reins on the horses' backs and the buckboard started off fast.

He did not turn down the main street, but circled the livery barns and left by the back way. It was bitterly cold, and it was thirty miles to the nearest shelter of any kind.

Chapter
Two.

The horses were grain-fed and strong, and in the intense cold they moved off at a good clip. Reilly glanced back only once. Somebody was standing in the street looking after them as they mounted the rise outside of town. When he had put three miles behind them, he drew up and broke open the package containing the boy's clothing.

"Put these on, Val. No, put them on right over what you're wearing. Then get into this sheepskin coat."

It was wide-open country, without landmarks except for the trail left by the stage and several freight wagons. The ground was covered by only an inch or two of snow, but the temperature was hovering around ten below zero.

He trotted the horses, walked them, trotted them again. From time to time as they went on he glanced back.

Bunker was the kind of man to organize a pursuit, and the sheriff was under his thumb, but the sheriff was also a very lazy man who would have no desire to get out in the cold.

Three hours, and perhaps twelve miles out of town, it began to snow. Only a few fine flakes at first, drifting slowly down. Then it began to fall faster and faster, and soon the horses were white with it.

He was not more than fifteen miles out when the snow became so thick he could scarcely see. The going was heavier, and the horses slowed down. For some time they had been climbing steadily, and now they had left the flat land behind them and were in the low foothills.

Reilly looked down at the boy. Val was awake and sitting up, peering into the snow.

"Cold, Val?"

"No, sir."

"We're in trouble, Val. The snow is getting too deep for the buckboard, and the horses are tired. We'll have to find a place to hole up until the storm is over."

"Is there a place?"

"There's an old cabin, if I can find it. It was off the road to the right, and among the trees. But that's a few miles further on, almost at the top of the pass."

Val huddled in his warm clothes and the buffalo robe. Only his nose was cold, but he succeeded in keeping it back of the sheepskin collar most of the time. The horses were making hard work of it now. Several times they stopped and had to be whipped to make them move.

"Have to do it, Val. If they stop here they'll freeze, but they don't know any better."

They were almost to the crest of the ridge and the wind was rising when the horses stopped again. Will Reilly got down from the buckboard and, taking them by the bridles, he led them on.

Once, screened from the worst of the wind and snow by a wall of pines, he came back to the buckboard.

"How are you making it, boy?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir. Can I help?"

"Just stay warm. And Val, remember this. If you stop pushing on, you lose. If we keep going, there will be shelter. It is always a little further to the top than you think."

For what seemed like a long while they plodded on. They seemed to be lost in time; in the blowing snow there was no perspective, no way of judging time or space, for they moved inside a whirl of blowing snow in a white world where most of the time Val could not even see Will Reilly.

Finally Reilly took an abrupt turn. For a moment the buckboard canted sharply and Val hung on, wildly afraid that it would tumble over. But the buckboard righted itself and they were out of the wind behind a shoulder of the mountain.

For thirty or forty yards they had clear going on a ridge that fell away on both sides and was blown free of snow. Then they were under the trees, in a thick stand of timber.

Reilly came back to Val. "You'll have to sit tight. If you see me go on ahead, you stay right in the seat. The old Ebbens' cabin is just up ahead, but if we don't make it soon the trail will be blocked."

Reilly moved back and forth across the road, trampling down the snow where it was too deep, then leading the horses on.

Suddenly a black bulk of rock showed before them, and close to it a slanting roof and a doorway. Surprisingly, a thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney.

Will Reilly stared at it, then with numbed fingers he unbuttoned his coat. Tucking his right hand into his armpit, he warmed his fingers while Val watched curiously.

Why didn't they go on, he thought. It would be warm inside the house, and he was cold now, especially his toes. After a few minutes Reilly walked on. He did not go right to the door, but veered off along a beaten path that led to a stable. He opened the door and went inside. When he came out he walked back to the buckboard.

"Val," he spoke quietly, "I don't want you to be afraid now. There are some men in there, and they may be outlaws. No matter what happens to me, you be friendly with them and they will take care of you. There are mighty few men who wouldn't be good to a little boy.

"There are three of them. Probably I will know them when I see them. They may even try to rob me, but you'll be in a warm place, and we haven't any choice. I'll put the horses up first." He started off, but paused and looked back. "Don't worry too much, Val," he said. He slapped his waistband. "I can handle this sort of thing pretty good."

He drove on to the stable through the steadily falling snow, and Val watched as Reilly stripped the harness from the horses, and then rubbed them down with care.

"Always take care of your horses first, Val," he said. "You never know when you may need them in their best shape." He flexed his fingers a few times. "All right, let's go see what kind of a hand we've drawn."