Ralestone Luck
A >> Andre Norton >> Ralestone Luck"This the place, Red?" The clipped words sounded clear above the murmurs
of life from swamp and woods.
"Yeah. Bum-lookin' joint, ain't it? These guys ain't got no brains; they
like to live like this." The contempt of the second speaker was only
surpassed by the stridency of his voice.
"What about this boy?" asked the first.
"Dumb kid. Don't know yet who his friends is." There was a satisfied
grunt as the speaker sat down on the step Val had so lately vacated.
Ricky pressed closer to her brother.
"What about the cabin?"
"He ain't here. And it's locked, see? Yuh'd think he kept the crown
jewels there." The tickling scent of a cigarette drifted back to the two
in hiding. "Beats me how he slipped away this morning without Pitts
catching on. For two cents I'd spring that lock of his--"
"Isn't worth the trouble," replied the other decisively. "These trappers
have no money except at the end of the fur season, and then most of them
are in debt to the storekeepers."
"Then why--"
"I sometimes wonder," the voice was coldly cutting, "why I continue to
employ you, Red. What profit would I find in a cabin like this? I want
what he knows, not what he has."
Having thus reduced his henchman to silence, the speaker went on
smoothly, as if he were thinking aloud. "With Simpson doing so well in
town, we're close to the finish. This swamper must tell us--" His voice
trailed away. Except for the creaking of wood when the sitter shifted
his position, there was no other sound.
Then Red must have grown restless, for someone stamped up to the
platform and rattled the chain on the cabin door aggressively. Val
flattened back against the wall. What if the fellow took it into his
head to walk around?
"Gonna wait here all day?" demanded Red.
"As it is necessary for me to have a word with him, we will. This waste
of time is the product of Pitts' stupidity. I shall remember that. It is
entirely needless to use force except as a last resource. Now that this
swamper's suspicions are aroused, we may have trouble."
"Yeah? Well, we can handle that. But how do yuh know that this guy has
the stuff?"
"I can at least believe the evidence of my own eyes," the other replied
with bored contempt. "I came down river alone the night of the storm and
saw him on the levee. He has a way of getting into the house all right.
I saw him in there. And he doesn't go through any of the doors, either.
I must know how he does it."
"All right, Boss. And what if you do get in? What are we supposed to be
lookin' for?"
"What those bright boys up there found a few days ago. That clerk told
us that they'd discovered whatever the girl was talking about in the
office that day. And we've got to get that before Simpson comes into
court with his suit. I'm not going to lose fifty grand." The last
sentence ended abruptly as if the speaker had snapped his teeth shut
upon a word like a dog upon its quarry.
"What does this guy Jeems go to the house for?" asked Red.
"Who knows? He seems to be hunting something too. But that's not our
worry. If it's necessary, we can play ghost also. I've got to get into
that house. If I can do it the way this Jeems does, without having to
break in--so much the better. We don't want the police ambling around
here just now."
Val stiffened. It didn't require a Sherlock Holmes to get the kernel of
truth out of the conversation he had overheard. "Night of the storm,"
"play ghost," were enough. So Jeems had been the ghost. And the swamper
knew a secret way into the house!
"Wait," Ricky's lips formed the words by his ear as Val stirred
restlessly. "Someone else is coming."
"I don't like the set-up in town," Red was saying peevishly. "That
smooth mouthpiece is asking too darn many questions. He's always asking
Simpson about things in the past. If you hadn't got Sim that family
history to study, he'd been behind bars a dozen times by now."
"And he had better study it," commented the other dryly, "because he is
going to be word perfect before the case comes to court, if it ever
does. There are not going to be any slip-ups in this deal."
"'Nother thing I don't like," broke in the other, "is this Waverly guy.
I don't like his face."
"No? Well, doubtless he would change it if you asked him to. And I do
not think it is wise of you to be too critical of plans which were made
by deeper thinkers than yourself. Sometimes, Red, you weary me."
There was no reply to that harsh judgment. And now Val could hear what
Ricky had heard earlier--a faint swish as of a paddle through water.
Again Ricky's lips shaped words he could barely hear.
"Spur of bayou runs along here in back. Someone coming up from there."
"Jeems?"
"Maybe."
"We'd better--" Val motioned toward the front of the cabin. Ricky shook
her head. Jeems was to be allowed to meet the intruders unwarned.
"This swamper may be tough," ventured Red.
"We've met hard cases before," answered the other significantly.
Red moved again, as if flexing his muscles.
"One boy, and a small one at that, shouldn't force you to undergo all
that preparation," goaded the Boss.
Ricky must get away at once, her brother decided. Stubbornness or no
stubbornness, she must go this time. Why he didn't think of going
himself Val never afterwards knew. Perhaps he possessed a spark of the
family love of danger, after all, but mostly he clung to his perch
because of that last threat. Whoever Jeems was or whatever he had done,
he was one and alone. And he might relish another player on his side.
But Ricky must go.
He said as much in a fierce whisper, only to have her grin recklessly
back at him. In pantomime she gestured that he might try to make her.
Val decided that he should have known the result of his efforts. Ricky
was a Ralestone, too. And short of throwing her off the platform and so
unmasking themselves completely, he could not move her against her will.
"No," she whispered. "They're planning trouble for Jeems. He'll probably
need us."
"Well," Val cautioned her, "if it gets too rough, you've got to promise
to cut downstream for help. We'll be able to use it."
She nodded. "It's a promise. But we've got to stand by Jeems if he needs
us."
"If he does--" Val was still suspicious. "He may fall in with their
suggestions."
Ricky shook her head. "He isn't that kind. I don't care if he _has_ been
playing ghost."
Someone was walking along the path among the bushes bordering the back
of the clearing. Although they could hear no sound, they could mark the
passing of a body by the swish of the foliage. Val lay, face down, on
the platform and reached for a stick of wood lying on the ground below.
Somehow he did not like to think of being caught empty-handed when the
excitement began.
"Hello." It was Red, suddenly genial. The Ralestones could almost feel
the radiance of the smile which must have split his face.
"Whatta yo' doin' heah?" That was Jeems, and his demand was sharply
hostile.
"Now, bub, don't get us wrong." That was Red, still genial. "I know my
pal sorta flew off his base this mornin'. But it was all in fun, see? So
we kinda wanted yuh to stick around till he came and not do the run-out
on us. And now the Boss has come down here so we can talk business all
friendly like."
"Shut up, Red!" Having so bottled his companion's flow of words, the
other spoke directly to Jeems. "My men made a mistake. All right. That's
over and done with; they'll get theirs. Now let's get down to business.
What do you know about that big plantation up river, the one called
'Pirate's Haven'?"
"Nothin'." Jeems' answer was clear. The hostility was gone from his
voice; nothing remained but an even tonelessness.
"Come now, I know you have reason to be hot. But this is business. I'll
make it worth your while--"
"Nothin'," answered Jeems as concisely as before.
"You can't expect us to believe that. I followed you one night."
"Yo' did?" The challenge was unmistakable.
"I did. So you see I know something of you. Something which even the
present owner does not. Say the ghost in the hall, for example."
There was the sound of a deeply drawn breath.
"So you see it is to your advantage to listen to us," continued the Boss
smoothly.
"What do you want?"
Val knew disappointment at that question. Would Jeems surrender as
easily as that?
"Just an explanation of how you get into the house unseen."
"Yo'll nevah know!" The swamper's reply came swift and clear.
"No? Well, I'd think twice before I held to that answer if I were you,"
purred the other softly. "A word to the Ralestones about those nightly
walks of yours--"
"Won't give yo' what yo' want," replied Jeems shrewdly.
"I see. Perhaps I have been using the wrong approach," observed the Boss
composedly. "You work for a living, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Then you know the value of money. What is your price? Come on, we won't
haggle."
The Boss' impatience colored his tone. "How much do you want for this
information?"
"Nothin'!"
"Nothing?"
"Ah ain't said nothin' an' Ah ain't a-goin' to say nothin'. An' yo'
bettah be a-gittin' offen this heah land of mine afo'--"
"Before what, swamper?" Red was taking a hand in the game.
"Yo' can't fright'n me with that gun," came calmly enough from Jeems.
"Yo' ain't a-goin' to risk shootin'--"
"There ain't no witnesses here, kid. And there ain't no law back in
these swamps. Yuh're gonna tell the Boss what he wants to know an'
yuh're gonna spill it quick, see? I know some ways of making guys
squeal--"
At that suggestion Val's fingers tightened on his club and Ricky choked
back a cry as her brother crept toward the corner of the cabin. Their
melodrama was fast taking on the color of tragedy.
"So yuh better speak up." Red was still encouraging Jeems.
There was no immediate answer from the swamper, but Ricky touched Val's
arm and nodded toward the bushes. She had decided that it was time for
her to leave. He agreed eagerly. She dropped lightly to the ground and
he watched her crawl away unnoticed by those in front who were so intent
upon the baiting of their quarry.
"Three minutes, swamper!"
Ricky was gone, free from whatever might develop. Val edged forward and
for the first time peered around the corner of the cabin. The two
assailants were still only voices, but he could see Jeems. The swamper's
face was bruised and there was a smear of dried blood across one cheek
as if he had already been roughly handled. But he stood at ease, facing
the cabin. His hands were hanging loosely at his sides and he was
seemingly unconcerned by what confronted him. Suddenly his eyes
flickered to the bushes at one side. Had Ricky betrayed herself, Val
wondered breathlessly.
Clear now of the cabin, Val wriggled his way around the platform. In a
minute he would be able to see the Boss and Red. He gripped the club.
Then Jeems stared straight into his face. But the swamper gave no sign
of seeing Val. And that, to the boy's mind, was the greatest feat of all
that afternoon. For Val knew that if he had been in Jeems' place he
would have betrayed them both in his surprise.
The others were at last visible, their backs to Val. Nervously he sized
them up. The Boss was tall and thin, but his movements suggested
possession of wiry strength. Red, his brick-colored hair making him easy
to identify, was shorter and thick across the shoulders, but his
waistline was also thick and the boy thought that his wind was bad. Of
the two, the Boss was the more dangerous. Red might lose his head in a
sudden attack, but not the Boss. Val decided to tackle the latter.
Slowly he got from his knees to his feet. After the first quick glance,
Jeems hadn't looked at him, but Val knew that the swamper was ready and
waiting to take advantage of any diversion he might make.
"Three minutes are up, swamper. So yuh've decided to be tough, eh?"
"Whatta yo' wanna know?" Jeems' question was silly but it held their
attention.
"We have told you several times," answered the Boss, his temper
beginning to fray visibly. "What is the trick of getting into that
house?"
"Well," Jeems raised his hand to rub his ear, "yo' turn to the left--"
So he agreed with the listener. Val was to take the Boss on his left. He
gathered his feet under him for the leap which he hoped would land him
full upon the invader.
"Yes?" prompted the man impatiently as Jeems hesitated. At that moment
Val sprang.
But his game leg betrayed him again. Instead of landing cleanly upon the
other, he came down draggingly across the Boss' shoulders. The gun
roared and then the attacked man lashed back a vicious blow which split
the skin over Val's cheek-bone.
For the next three minutes Val was more than occupied. His opponent was
a dirty fighter, and when he had recovered from his surprise he was more
than the boy could handle. Val's club was twisted out of his hands, and
he found himself fighting wildly to keep the man's clawing fingers from
his eyes. They were both rolling on the ground, flailing out at each
other. Twice Val tasted his own blood when one of the enemy's vicious
jabs glanced along his face. Either blow would have finished Val had it
landed clean.
Then in a sudden turn the Boss caught him in a deadly body-lock which
left him half-stunned and panting, at his mercy. And there was no mercy
in the man. When Val looked up into that flushed, snarling face, he knew
that he was as hopeless as a trapped animal. The man could--and
would--finish him at his leisure.
"This way, Rupert! Sam!" the cry reached even Val's dulled ears.
The man above him stirred. The boy saw the blood-lust fade from his eyes
and apprehension take its place. He got to his feet, launching a last
bruising kick at Val's ribs before he limped across the clearing. On his
way he hauled Red to his feet. They were going, not toward the path from
the bayou, but around the house on the trail that Jeems had followed.
Val struggled up and looked around. The turf was torn and gouged. In the
dust lay his club and Red's revolver.
And by the steps lay something else, a slight brown figure. Painfully
the boy got to his feet and lurched across to Jeems.
CHAPTER XII
THE RALESTONES BRING HOME A RELUCTANT GUEST
The swamper was lying on his back, his eyes closed. From a great purple
welt across his forehead the blood oozed sluggishly. When Val touched
him he moaned faintly.
"Val! Are you hurt? What's the matter?" Ricky was upon them like a
whirlwind out of the bush.
"Jeems stopped a nasty one," her brother panted.
"Is he--" She dropped down in the dust beside them.
"He's knocked out, and he'll have a bad headache for some time, but I
don't think it's any worse than that."
Ricky had pulled out a microscopic bit of handkerchief and was dabbing
at the blood in an amateurish way. Jeems moaned and turned his head as
if to get away from her ministrations.
"Where's Rupert--and Sam?" Val looked toward the path. "They were with
you, weren't they?"
Ricky shook her head. "No. That was just what you call creating a
diversion. For all I know, they're busy at home."
Her brother straightened. "Then we've got to get out of here--fast.
Those two left because they were rattled, but when they have had a
chance to cool off they'll be back."
"What about Jeems?"
"Take him with us, of course. We won't be able to manage the canoe. But
you brought the outboard, so we'll go in that and tow the canoe. We
ought to have something to cover his head." Val regarded the bleeding
wound doubtfully.
Without answering, Ricky leaned forward and began systematically going
through Jeems' pockets. In the second she found a key. Val took it from
her and hobbled up the cabin steps. For a wonder, he thought thankfully,
the key was the right one. The lock clicked and he went in.
Like the clearing, the interior of the one-room shack was neat, a place
for everything and everything in its place. Under the window in the far
wall was a small chest of some dark polished wood. Save for its size, it
was not unlike the chests the Ralestones had found in their store-room.
Opposite it was a wooden cot, the covers smoothly spread. A stool, a
blackened cook stove, and a solid table with an oil lamp were the extent
of the furnishings. Lines of traps hung on the walls, along with the
wooden boards for the stretching of drying skins, and there was a
half-finished grass basket lying on top of the chest.
Val hefted a stoneware jug. They had no time to hunt for a spring. And
if this contained water, they would need it. At the resulting gurgle
from within, he set it by the door and returned to rob the cot of pillow
and the single coarse but clean sheet.
Ricky tore the sheet and made a creditable job of washing and bandaging
the ugly bruise. Jeems drank greedily when they offered him water but he
did not seem to recognize them. In answer to Ricky's question of how he
felt, he muttered something in the swamp French of the Cajuns. But he
was uneasy until Val locked the cabin door and put the key in his hand.
"How are we going to get him to the boat?" asked Ricky suddenly.
"Carry him."
"But, Val--" for the first time she looked at her brother as if she
really saw him--"Val, you're hurt!"
"Just a little stiff," he hastened to assure her. "Our late visitors
play rather rough. We'll manage all right. I'll take his shoulders and
you his feet."
They wavered drunkenly along the path. Twice Val stumbled and regained
his balance just in time. Ricky had laid the pillow across their
burden's feet, declaring that she would need it when they got to the
boat. Val passed the point of aching misery--when he thought that he
could not shuffle forward another step--and now he came into what he had
heard called "second wind." By fixing his eyes on a tree or a bush a
step or two ahead and concentrating only upon passing that one, and then
that, and that, he got through without disgracing himself.
At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into the boat. Val
had no doubt that a woodsman might have done the whole job better in
much less time and without a tenth of the effort they had expended. But
all he ever wondered afterward was how they ever did it at all.
[Illustration: _At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into
the boat._]
It was when Ricky had made their passenger as comfortable as she could
in the bottom of the boat, steadying his head across her knees, that her
brother partially relaxed.
"Val, you run the engine," she said without looking up.
He dragged himself toward the stern of the boat, remembering too late,
when he had cast off, that he had not taken the canoe in tow. The engine
coughed, sputtered, and then settled down to a steady _putt-putt_. They
were off.
"Val, do you--do you think he is badly hurt?"
He dared not look down; it required all his powers of concentration on
what lay before them to keep his hand steady.
"No. We'll get a doctor when we get back. He'll come around again in no
time--Jeems, I mean."
But would he? Head injuries were sometimes more serious than they
seemed, Val remembered dismally.
It was not until they came out into the main bayou that Jeems roused
again. He looked up at Ricky in a sort of dull surprise, and then his
gaze shifted to Val.
"What--"
"We won the war," Val tried to grin, an operation which tore his mask of
dried blood, "thanks to Ricky. And now we're going home."
At that, Jeems made a violent effort to sit up.
"_Non_!" his English deserted him and he broke into impassioned French.
"Yes," Val replied firmly as Ricky pushed the swamper down. "Of course
you're coming with us. You've had a nasty knock on the head that needs
attention."
"Ah'm not a-goin' to no hospital!" His eyes burned into Val's.
"Certainly not!" cried Ricky. "You're bound for our guest-room. Now keep
quiet. We'll be there soon."
"Ah ain't a-goin'," he declared mutinously.
"Don't be silly," Ricky scolded him; "we're taking you. Does Val have to
come and hold you down?"
"Ah can't!" His eyes flickered from Val's face to hers. There was
something more than independence behind that firm refusal. "Ah ain't
a-goin' theah."
"Why not?"
He seemed to shrink from her. "It ain't fitten," he murmured.
"How perfectly silly," laughed Ricky. But Val thought that he
understood.
"Because of the secret you know?" he asked quietly.
The pallor beneath Jeems' heavy tan vanished in a flush of slow-burning
red. "Ah reckon so," he muttered, but he met Val's eyes squarely.
"Let's leave all explanations until later," Val suggested.
"Ah played haunt!" the confession came out of the swamper in a rush.
"Then you _were_ my faceless ghost?"
Jeems tried to nod and the action printed a frown of pain between his
eyes.
"Why? Didn't you want us to live there?" asked Ricky gently.
"Ah was huntin'--"
"What for?"
The frown became one of puzzlement. "Ah don't know--" His voice trailed
off into a thin whisper as his eyes closed wearily. Val signaled Ricky
to keep quiet.
"Ahoy there!" Along the bank toward them came Rupert and after him Sam.
Beyond them lay the Ralestone landing. Val headed inshore.
"Just what does this mean--Val! Has there been an accident?" The
irritation in Rupert's voice became hot concern.
"An intended one," his brother replied. "We've got the real victim here
with us."
They tied up to the landing and Sam came down to hand out Jeems who
apparently had lapsed into unconsciousness again.
"You'd better call a doctor," Val told Rupert. "Jeems has a head wound."
But Rupert had already taken charge of affairs with an efficiency which
left Val humbly grateful. The boy didn't even move to leave the boat. It
was better just to sit and watch other people scurry about. Sam had
started for the house, carrying Jeems as if the long-legged swamper was
the same age and size as his own small son. Ricky dashed on ahead to
warn Lucy. Rupert had Sam Two by the collar and was giving him
instructions for catching Dr. LeFrode, who was probably making his
morning rounds and might be found at the sugar-mill where one of the
feeders had injured his hand. Sam Two's sister had seen the doctor on
his way there a scant ten minutes earlier.
Val watched all this activity dreamily. Everything would be all right
now that Rupert was in charge. He could relax--
"Now," his brother turned upon Val, "just what did--What's the matter
with you?"
"Tired, I guess," Val said ruefully. But Rupert was already in the boat,
getting the younger boy to his unsteady feet.
"Can you make it to the house?" he asked anxiously.
"Sure. Just give me an arm till I get on the landing."
But when Val had crawled up on the levee he did not feel at all like
walking to the house. Then Rupert's arm was about his thin shoulders and
he thought that he could make it if he really tried.
The garden path seemed miles long, and it was not until Val had the soft
cushions of the hall couch under him that he felt able to tell his
story. But at that moment the short, stout doctor came through the door
in a rush. Sam Two had led him to believe that half the household had
been murdered. At first Dr. LeFrode started toward Val, until in alarm
the boy swung his feet to the floor and sat up, waving the man to the
stairway where Ricky hovered to act as guide.
Then Val was alone, even Sam Two having edged upstairs to share in the
excitement. The boy sank back on his pillows and wondered where their
late assailants were now, and why they had been so determined to learn
Jeems' secret. As Ricky had said once before, the Ralestones seemed to
have been handed a gigantic tangle without ends, only middle sections,
and had been told to unravel it.
Boot heels clicked on the stone flooring. Val turned his head cautiously
and tried not to wince. Rupert was coming in with a bowl of water, from
which steam still arose. Across his arm lay a towel and in his other
hand was their small first-aid kit.
"Suppose we do a little patching," he suggested. "Your face at present
is not all it might be. What did you and your swamp friend do--run into
a mowing machine?" He swabbed delicately at the cut the Boss had opened
across Val's cheek-bone, and at another by his mouth.
"I thought it might be that for a moment--a mowing machine, I mean. No,
we just met a couple of gentlemen--enterprising fellows who wanted to
see more of this commodious mansion of ours--" Val's words faded into a
sharp hiss as Rupert applied iodine with a liberal hand. "They seemed to
think that Jeems knew a lot about Pirate's Haven and they were going to
persuade him to tell all. Only it didn't turn out the way they had
planned."
"Due to you?" Rupert eyed his brother intently. The boy's face was
swollen almost out of recognition and he didn't like this sudden
talkativeness.
"Due partly to me, but mostly to Ricky. She--ah--created the necessary
diversion. I had sort of lost interest at the time. I know so little
about gouging and biting in clinches."
"Dirty fighters?"
"Well, soiled anyway. But if the Boss isn't nursing a cracked wrist, it
isn't my fault. I don't know what Jeems did to Red, but he, too,
departed in a damaged condition. Do you have to do that?" Val demanded
testily, squirming as Rupert ran his hands lightly over the boy's
shoulders and down his ribs, touching every bruise to tingling life.