The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (35 page)

Whipping the rifle to his shoulder, he fired three times. The man in the crow’s nest slumped forward. His rifle slid from his hands.

Millan’s gun roared. Jim saw the shell smash into the bulkhead of the forward deckhouse. The gun crashed again. At the same instant a shell blasted open number four hatch, ripping a winch and ventilator to bits.

“There goes my profit on this trip,” Jim said. “I never did care for war.”

Millan’s gun crashed. They saw the shell shatter the enemy’s gun. Millan fired again. A shot struck the
Semiramis
amidships. Mayo winced.

He ran to the rail and glanced at the faint discoloration of the reef.

“A fathom and a half is right,” he said cheerfully. “I must report that to the Hydrographic Office. Get that after gun when she strikes the reef. When we swing alongside, let them board us. They will, because they’ll be sinking!”

“Are you nuts?” Millan protested.

T
HERE WAS A
terrific crash astern, a grinding scream as the bow of the pursuing ship lifted over the reef. With a tortured rending of steel plates, the big freighter slid over the reef, canted sharply to starboard. Ponga Jim turned and raced for the bridge.

“Hard to port!” he yelled at Brophy. “Swing around and come in alongside.”

Millan’s gun banged, then again. Someone was shouting from the bridge. Rifle shots swept the deck of the
Semiramis.
Back aft, Millan was coolly battering the larger ship to pieces. The shells were smashing the superstructure into a mountain of twisted steel.

The
Semiramis
slid alongside. Ponga Jim dived for the ladder, gun in hand. A bullet slammed by his head and went whining off over the sea. He snapped an effective shot at a big German sailor.

The main deck was a pitched battle. Abandoning his gun, Millan was leading the lascars to stem the tide of men leaping from the rail of the wrecked ship. From the bridge, Slug Brophy was working two guns, firing from the hips.

Ponga Jim fired twice. Something struck him a terrific blow on the head. He pulled himself erect, feeling the warm rush of blood down his face. Something smashed into the bulkhead beside him and he found himself staring at a mushroomed bullet. With an effort, he pulled himself around.

Sag Dormie was standing on the edge of the ruined number four hatch. Just as Jim looked up, Sag’s gun blossomed fire. Miraculously, he missed. Ponga Jim’s gun swung up, roaring a stream of fire and lead.

Blank astonishment swept over Sag’s face. Still trying to lift his gun, he toppled back into the black maw of the hatch.

Shooting and slugging furiously, Ponga Jim leaped into the brawl on the main deck. Hassan was down, his body riddled. Big Abdul stabbed and ripped a heavy knife at a circle of enemies. Jim’s shot cut one of them down. Another man wheeled to face him. Mayo slammed him with the barrel of the gun. The man wilted.

But where the hell was Dussel? Blood streaming down his face, Jim stared around. He saw him, standing on the bridge of the other ship. As he looked up, Job Dussel saw him and beckoned.

Jim cleared both rails at a leap. Job met him at the top, his white, pulpy face wrinkled in a smile. Then the big man leaped.

But this time Jim was ready. Rolling under a left, he slammed each fist into the big man’s body. Dussel crowded him back, swinging. When he tried to duck he was caught with a wicked uppercut that knocked him back against the wheelhouse. There was no chance for boxing. It was a matter of standing toe to toe on the narrow bridge and slugging.

Dussel hooked a vicious right that knocked him to his knees and then shot out a kick that Jim barely evaded. Staggering to his feet, Ponga Jim was blinded by the blood from his scalp wound. He scarcely felt the terrific driving force of those blows that rained about his head and body. Driving in, he weaved and bobbed. He felt only the killing desire to batter that gross body against the bulkhead, to drive him back, back, back!

Ponga Jim stared. The huge, hard body, seemingly so soft, was impregnable, almost beyond injury. But the face—

Jim crowded closer, swinging both hands. A blow staggered him. But he went under and whipped up a left hook that bared Dussel’s cheekbone. A terrific right knocked Dussel sprawling along the bridge.

Someone was shouting at Jim. He looked up, dazed. A slim white cutter had swept up, scarcely a half-dozen yards away. Standing on the bow was Major Arnold, immaculate in a white and gold uniform!

“Jump!” Major Arnold yelled. “That scow is sinking under your feet! Stop playing slap hands and move!”

“William,” Jim gulped. He suddenly felt relaxed and empty inside. “You look sweet enough to kiss. Am I seeing stars or are those gold buttons?”

“Just jump, damn you!” Arnold roared. “If you don’t, I’ll come after you!”

Jim stared around. The water was creeping over the decking of the bridge!

Jim sprang to the rail of the bridge and off into the water. Dripping, he was hauled aboard the cutter. He could see the sturdy old
Semiramis
standing off.

“Look!” Major Arnold said suddenly.

On the bridge of the sinking freighter, Job Dussel had tottered to his feet. His wide, repulsive face was horribly smashed and bloody.

Staggering to the rail, Dussel toppled blindly into the water. With a grinding crash, as though it had waited for that instant, the freighter slipped down into deeper water. Only swirls of water marked the spot….

P
ONGA
J
IM TURNED
to Major Arnold.

“William,” he said. “I got so busy there at last, I never did find out where your sub base was located.”

“You said the Gulf of Tolo before you started,” William grinned. “That gave me a lead. Then the
Valapa Bay
relayed the message you sent with the mast light. I knew if they were aboard the
Semiramis,
it was because they had to get to the Molucca Passage, or to some boat en route. That pointed in the same direction. We investigated and found the submarine base.

“You see, Dussel and Lucieno didn’t dare show themselves on a British ship. The Dutch were watching for them, too. Then the boys found you were going to Amurang, Menado, and Wahai, so they slipped aboard. Job Dussel sank the
Silver Lady.
He also sank those other ships, sank them without a chance. He was aiming at paralyzing the entire trade of the islands—and he came damned near success. He was a brute, all right!”

Ponga Jim Mayo wiped the back of his hand across his bloody mouth.

“Yeah, he was a brute,” he said. “But, William”—Jim pointed back at the reef, where the waters were stirring slightly over the rocks—“that guy could fight! Boy, how that guy could fight!”

From Here to Banggai

Y
ou know, William,” Ponga Jim Mayo said drily, “I’m getting so I hate to see that handsome pan of yours showing itself around. Every time you come around me I end up getting shot at.”

Major Arnold smiled blandly. “Never give it a thought, Jim. I don’t. They can’t shoot a man that was born to be hung.”

“Huh!” Ponga Jim emptied his glass and reached for the bottle. “That’s a swell crack from the guy whose bacon I’ve saved at least twice. If it wasn’t for me you’d have lost the war right here in the East Indies. And you, a British Intelligence officer, razzing me. It pains me, William, it really pains me!”

“All of which,” Major Arnold continued, ignoring him, “reminds me. How did you ever get that ‘Ponga’ tied to your name?”

Mayo grinned and settled back in his chair. “It’s a long story, William. A story that will make your pink British ears pinker, and much too rough for your sensitive moral condition. However, over in Africa, there’s a place called Gabon, and in Gabon is a town called Ponga-Ponga. Now a few years past over in Ponga-Ponga was a young man named Mayo, and—”

“Jim,” Major Arnold whispered suddenly. “Who are those men at the next table?”

Ponga Jim chuckled. “I was wondering how long it would take you to wake up to those lugs,” he said. Then he said guardedly, “Despite the obvious military bearing of at least two of them, those gents are merely innocent passengers on the good ship
Carlsberg.
You may remember the
Carlsberg
is from Copenhagen, but not so many days past her home port was Bremerhaven.

“The chap with the bulge behind his belt is a commercial traveler, even though he looks like a member of the Nazi Gestapo. The lean, hard-faced guy isn’t a naval officer, but only a man traveling for his health. The—”

“Ssh!” Major Arnold whispered. “The fat one is coming over.”

The man’s face was rotund, and his round belly was barely controlled by a heavy leather belt. He looked jolly and lazy until you saw his eyes. They were small, and hard as bits of steel. Like the others, he wore whites and a sun helmet.

He stopped beside their table. “I beg your pardon,” he said, smiling slowly, “but I accidentally heard your friend call you Ponga Jim. Aren’t you master of the
Semiramis
?”

“Yeah,” Jim acknowledged. “Have a seat.”

The German seated himself between them, smiling contentedly. “And your friend?”

M
AJOR
A
RNOLD WAVED
a deprecatory hand, looking very much the neat, well-bred Englishman. “My name is Girard, William Girard,” he said. “I’m trying my hand at pearl buying.”

“And mine is Romberg,” the fat man said. Then he turned to Jim. “Isn’t it true, Captain, that you clear for Bonthain and Menado soon? Captain van Raalt, the pilot, told me your cargo was for those ports. My friends and I are interested, as we have some drilling machinery for shipment to Banggai.”

“Banggai’s on my route,” Jim said. “You and your friends want to go along as passengers?”

Romberg nodded. “I can start the cargo moving right away, if you wish,” he said.

“The quicker the better,” Mayo said, getting up. “Alright.”

Romberg, after shaking hands with each of them, rejoined his friends.

“Well, William,” Jim said softly, when they had reached the street, “what do you make of it?”

“That cargo to Banggai looks like a load of trouble, if you ask me,” the major said grimly. “Cancel it. I didn’t know they were here yet, but I knew the Gestapo was out to get you. They know you messed up that New Guinea deal and their plans here.”

Ponga Jim shrugged. “So what? Cargo doesn’t lay around waiting for a guy. I’ll take my chances and—” he smiled grimly, his eyes hard, “they’ll take theirs!”

“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” Arnold said resignedly.

“William,” Ponga Jim said pointedly, “I need that money. Everything I got in the world is in that old tub down there by the dock.”

He turned and walked rapidly down the street. Over six feet tall, Ponga Jim weighed two hundred pounds and carried it like a featherweight. In the officer’s cap, the faded khaki suit, and woven-leather sandals he looked tough, hard-bitten. His jaw was strong, and his face was tanned by wind, sun, and brine.

Arnold shrugged. “Maybe,” he said softly, “maybe he can do it. If ever a man could go through hell barefooted, that’s the one!”

M
AKASSAR WAS DOZING
in the heat of a tropical evening. Like many tropical towns it can sleep for weeks or months and then suddenly explode with volcanic force, releasing all its pent-up violence in one mad burst and then falling quietly into the doldrums once more.

Now it was quiet, but with an uneasy stillness like the hush before a storm. Ponga Jim stopped on the end of the Juliana Quay, and Slug Brophy walked up.

“Been around the joints?” Jim asked him.

Brophy nodded. He was a short, thickset man with enormously broad shoulders and a massive chest. His head was set on a short, thick neck. His heavy jaw was always black with beard. He was wearing whites, with shirtsleeves rolled up and his cap at an angle.

“Yeah,” Brophy said, “but I came back. I don’t like the looks of things. Everything is quiet enough, but some of the bad ones are looking wise. I saw Gunong, Stello, and Hankins. They’ve all been drinking a little, and they’ve got something up their sleeves.”

“Crew aboard?” Jim asked.

“All but Li Chuang, the Chinese steward you picked up in Perth. He’s ashore picking up something extra special for you.”

Jim nodded. “I’m going to look him up. We’re getting under way as soon as this new cargo gets loaded. The Gunner watching it?”

Brophy nodded. “Cap,” he asked, “is there anything funny about this cargo?”

“Trouble. Those Nazis want me out of the picture. This whole deal is a trap. But they pay in advance.”

Brophy grinned widely. “In advance, huh? Okay, Cap. Let’s go!”

Ponga Jim turned and started back up the street. A month before, he had bought the
Semiramis
in Melbourne, a battered old tramp with too many years behind her. From the beginning, there had been trouble finding a steward. Then he had stumbled across Li in Perth and had shipped the Chinese at once.

Since then life aboard ship had improved. Li knew how and where to buy supplies, and he always managed to save money. In short, he was too close to a miracle to have running around loose, Jim thought.

Jim was passing the Parakeet Nest, a dive near the waterfront, when he heard a fist smack and a rattle of Chinese in vigorous expostulation. His pulses jumped at the sound, and he wheeled, pushing through the swinging doors.

Hankins, a burly beachcomber with an evil reputation; Gunong, a Buginese; and Stello, a Portuguese Malay were gathered about, shouting. On the floor lay Li Chuang, his packages scattered about, his face livid with anger.

Hankins stood over him, kicking the slender Chinese in the ribs.

With one bound, Mayo was through the door. Gunong shouted and Hankins whirled, and even as he turned he unleashed a terrific right. It was a killing punch, and Jim Mayo was coming fast. It caught him full on the chin and sent him crashing against the wall. His head bounced, and he slid to the floor.

For just an instant, everyone stared, unbelieving. Then with a roar, Burge Hankins leaped to finish the job. But that instant had been almost enough, and Jim rolled his head away from the wild kick launched by the raging beachcomber.

Hankins’s recklessness cost him victory. The kick missed, and Mayo lurched drunkenly to his feet. The room swam before him in a smoky haze. A punch slid off the side of his head, and he staggered forward, fighting by instinct while Hankins wasted his fury in a mad rain of blows when one measured punch would have won.

Ponga Jim Mayo was out on his feet. The room circled him dizzily, and through the haze he saw the horror-stricken face of Li squatting on the floor, blood trickling through his lips.

Ponga Jim was punch-drunk and he was still groggy, but suddenly he was a fighting man. With a growl like a wounded beast, he struck savagely. His left smashed into Hankins’s face and knocked the surprised beachcomber against the bar with such driving force that his head bobbed, just in time to meet the sweeping right that lifted him off his feet and knocked him bloody and broken into a corner.

The startled crowd stared, and the giant Gunong ran a thin tongue over his parched lips. Feverishly, his eyes sought the door. Ponga Jim took a step forward, and then, with the speed of light, he leaped.

Gunong’s knife slashed out. A half inch closer would have ripped Ponga Jim’s stomach open. But it ripped his shirt from side to side and left a red slash across the skin. Then Jim was upon him with a hail of blows that swept down almost too fast for the eye to follow. In seconds Gunong was out cold.

But Ponga Jim was playing no favorites. He smashed out and knocked a Buginese cutthroat reeling. Someone leaped astride of his back and he grabbed the man by the head and threw him bodily over his shoulder into the wall. With a roar of fury Jim waded into the crowd. Blows rained about him. Men screamed with pain, and he felt hands grasping at his legs. He kicked back desperately, and somebody cried out.

With a leap, Jim reached the bar. He smashed a bottle over the head of the nearest man. Maddened faces, streaked with blood and sweat, massed around him. A fist struck his chin, staggering him. He came up with a broken chair leg.

The room was a riot of fighting and insane fury.

Suddenly Jim remembered the gun, and his hand jerked up and ripped open the holster. Then he cursed with fury. To hell with it! He slammed a fist into a face nearby, grabbed the man by the throat and jerked him to arm’s length overhead, and heaved him out into the crowd. He was swaying dizzily, and suddenly he was conscious that his arms were heavy, that he was fighting with his back to the wall. Still they crowded around him.

The floor was littered with injured men, but still he didn’t use the gun. For an instant, they drew back, staring at him with malevolence.

A big Dyak was down, his face a smear of blood. He tried to get up and then fell back. The pack sensed a kill. Like wolves about an injured bull, they circled warily. They were closing in now.

Ponga Jim Mayo crouched, waiting. He still had the gun, but like a true fighting man, he hated to use it. Guns were his business, but a fight was a fight, and gang fight or otherwise, Ponga Jim Mayo had always won. Desperate, bitter, bloody, but always he and his crew had come out on the top.

Stello, who had hung back, now came forward. He was clutching a kris, and his lips were parted in a sneer of hatred. Yet, even as Jim waited, knowing the next attack would be the last, he realized something was behind this, something more than a mere attack on his cook. These men were cutthroats, but they were organized cutthroats. They hadn’t gathered here by accident. Even as he realized that, his mind leaped to his ship, to Romberg, to…

S
TELLO SMILED
, his beady eyes gleaming maliciously. “You want beg now, Ponga Jim? You want die now?”

The big half-caste took a step forward. Behind him, the semicircle moved forward. In a split second they would attack!

Ponga Jim’s hand, out of sight behind the bar, fell across the handle of the shot-filled hose that the bartender used in case of brawls. In that instant, Stello lunged. But as he lunged the loaded hose swept up and lashed him across the face!

Ponga Jim Mayo heard the bones crunch, saw the big man’s nose flatten and his face turn blue with that vicious blow. And in the instant the doors burst open and Slug Brophy leaped in, followed by the crew of the
Semiramis.
What followed was a slaughter.

Somewhere outside a policeman stopped. He looked at the door. He saw a notorious cutthroat stagger outside, trying desperately to pull a knife from his chest. Then the officer turned and disappeared into the darkness. This was no place for an honest policeman.

The streets were silent and still very suddenly, as a silent body of men walked out on Juliana Dock and aboard the
Semiramis.

The Gunner was standing by the gangway, pistol in hand. Ponga Jim came up, staggering. His face was smeared with dried blood and his shirt was gone. The holster with the gun was still hanging from his shoulder. As the men trooped slowly aboard, Ponga Jim turned to the Gunner.

“All aboard, Millan? If they are, get the anchor up. There’ll be hell from here to Batavia for this night’s work.” He glanced across at the
Carlsberg,
her shadow looming large in the darkness.

He walked to his cabin and fell across the bed. There were things to be done, but they would have to wait. With a sigh Ponga Jim fell asleep.

It was morning when he awoke. He took a shower, washing away the dried blood from his face and hair. Gingerly, he bathed a swollen lip and hand. There was a bad gash on his scalp, too, and a lump under one eye. Casually, he dressed then and checked his gun.

The morning sun struck him like a blow, and he stood still for a moment, looking out over the sea. It was calm, with the wind about force two. Ponga Jim climbed the ladder to the bridge. The Gunner came out of the wheelhouse. He looked worried, but brightened when he saw Mayo.

“Hi, Cap. Glad to see you around.”

Jim grunted. “Yeah, I’m glad to be around.”

“That must have been some fight!” Gunner exclaimed.

“That fight was a plant, a put-up job!” Ponga Jim looked off over the sea astern. To the south loomed the heavy shoulders of a mountainous island. “Kabalena?” he asked Gunner. “That’s Batu Sengia, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Millan agreed. “We’re doing okay. You want to take over now?”

Jim shook his head. “Hold it till noon. I’ll take the twelve to four.”

Ponga Jim walked into the wheelhouse and stood staring down at the chart spread on the table. Major Arnold had been right. That effort in the Parakeet Nest had been the first attempt. That failing, there would be something else. The only question was when and where. Soon his ship would be in Tioro Strait, then Wowoni Strait and the Banda Sea. These islands, Muna and Butung, were little known, their inhabitants strange tribes of Malay-speaking people who kept to themselves.