i
 From the American West to the Siberian coast, from
Hollywood to the boxing ring, here are timeless tales of
war, mystery, romance, crime, and punishment as
only Louis L'Amour can tell them. These stories are vintage
L'Amour: A hard-bitten cattle driver is pitted against a
man trying to steal his woman, the disappearance of
a thousand head of cattle, and a plot to frame him for
murder....A private eye visits a remote mining town on
a case involving a sexy widow, an uneasy lawman, and a
fortune in gold buried in an abandoned mine shaft....
A country boy with a good right hand must fight not only
his vicious opponent in the ring but the ruthless
gangsters who'll do anything for profit-even commit
cold-blooded murder....A young woman stranded in
an isolated harbor must survive the wilderness and a
brutal battle of wits with a sadistic fortune hunter. I lere is
the trademark blend of action, suspense, historical detail,
and unforgettable characters that have made Louis L'Amour
one of the world's most extraordinary1 writers.
LOUIS AMOUR
Our foremost storyteller of
the authentic West, L'Amour
has thrilled a nation by
chronicling the adventures j
of the brave men and women
who settled the American (.*»*>,
frontier. There are more than
260 million copies of
his books in print around
the world.
ii
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Coming soon to a
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iii
 The Will to Survive
She laughed at the picture of herself, stark-naked and
freezing in a primitive forest, clutching a rifle and daring
a man like Pete Kubelik to come and get her. What made
it funny was the thought of her husband, champion of
the working class, seeing her now. That her often drunk,
ineffective coffeehouse Bolshevik could never even
imagine this.
?Come on, damn you.?
From somewhere inside her there came a deep swell
of emotion. Some of it was the loss of her father. Some of
it was fear of this terrible man. Some of it was anger, finally,
not with herself, but with her no-good husband.
But most of it was an emotion that had no name,
something ancient and primal, the feeling that a tiny
animal might have when, after being pursued to the end
of its endurance, it turns and bares its teeth. Not only does
it have to fight, but something inside has changed . . .
now it wants to fight.
MONUMENT ROCK
?[A] compelling blend of explosive action, period detail,
humor and insights about human nature.?-USA Today
END OF THE DRIVE
?Awesome immediacy, biting as creosote slapped on a
fence post.?-Kirkus Reviews
BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS
?L'Amour's brassy women and dusty men keep the
action of these cinematic stories hot. . . . These
adventure tales offer their share of the high drama
L'Amour is famous for.?-Publishers Weekly
iv
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed
NOVFIS Passm' Through War Party
Bendigo Shaffer The Proving Trail West from Singapore
Borden Chantry The Quick and the West of Dodge
Bnonne Dead Yondering
The Broken Gun Radigan
The Burning Hills Reilly's Luck SACKETT TITLES
The Cahformos The Rider of Lost Sackett's Land
Callaghen Creek To the Far Blue
Catlow Rivers West Mountains
Chancy The Shadow Riders The Warrior's Path
The Cherokee Trail Shalako Jubal Sackett
Comstock I ode Showdown at Yellow Ride the River
Conagher Butte The Daybreakers
Crossfire Trail Silver Canyon Sackett
Dark Canyon Sitka Lando
Down the Long Hills Son of a Wanted Man Mo)ave Crossing
The Empty Land Taggart Mustang Man
Fair Blows the Wind The Tall Stranger The Lonely Men
Fallon To Tame a Land Galloway
The Ferguson Rifle Tucker Treasure Mountain
The First Fast Draw Under the Sweetwater Lonely on the
Flint Rim Mountain
Guns of the Utah Blame Ride the Dark Trail
Timberlands The Walking Drum The Sackett Brand
Hanging Woman Creek Westward the Tide The Sky-Liners
The Haunted Mesa Where the Long Grass
Heller with a Gun Blows THE HOPALONG
The High Graders CASSIDY NOVELS
High Lonesome SHORT-STORY The Riders of the High
Hondo COLLECTIONS Rock
How the West Was Beyond the Great Snow The Rustlers of West
Won Mountains Fork
The Iron Marshal Bowdne The Trail to Seven
The Key-Lock Man Bowdrie's Law Pines
Kid Rodelo Buckskin Run Trouble Shooter
Kilkenny Dutchman's Flat
Killoe End of the Drive NONFICTION
Kilrone The Hills of Homicide Education of a
KiowaTr.nl Law of the Desert Born Wandering Man
Last of the Breed Long Ride Home Frontier
Last Stand at Papago 1 omgan The Sackett
Welh Monument Rock Companion: A
The Lonesome Gods Night over the Personal Guide to the
The Man ( ailed Noon Solomons Sackett Novels
The Man from Off the Mangrove A Trail of Memories:
Skibbereen Coast The Quotations of
The Man from the The Outlaws of Louis L'Amour,
Broken Hills Mesquite compiled by
Matagorda The Rider of the Ruby Angehque L'Amour
Milo Talon Hills
The Mountain Valley Riding for the Brand POETRY
War The Strong Shall Live Smoke from This Altar
North to the Rails The Trail to Crazy Man
Over on the Dry Side Valley of the Sun
v
 BEYOND
THE GREAT SNOW
MOUNTAINS
LOUIS L'AMOUR
BANTAM BOOKS
NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND
vi
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition / 1999
Bantam mass market edition / April 2000
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©1999 by Louis and Katherme L'Amour Trust
Cover art copyright ©1999 by Gregory Marchess
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware
that this book is stolen property. It was reported as ?unsold and
destroyed?to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this ?stripped book.?
ISBN 0-553-58041-8
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random
House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words ?Bantam Books?and
the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office
and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540
Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
vii
 CONTENTS
By the Waters of San Tadeo / 1
Meeting at Falmouth / 20
Roundup in Texas / 31
Sideshow Champion / 59
Crash Landing / 90
Under the Hanging Wall / 98
Coast Patrol / 132
The Gravel Pit / 151
The Money Punch / 166
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 199
A Note on the Dedication / 214
viii
 To John Veitch and Louis L'Amour . ..
together again
1
 BY THE WATERS
OF SAN TADEO
The dozen shacks that made up the village of San
Esteban huddled, dwarfed and miserable, below
the craggy ramparts that walled them away from
the world. The lofty circle of mountains, with their icechoked
ravines and thick tangles of beech forest, formed
an enclosing wall as impassable as the mountains of the
moon. Only in one direction was escape from the village
possible. . . through the narrow mouth of the inlet, eight
miles from the village.
Julie Marrat had thought of all that many times
in the last few weeks, and each time she had come to
the same conclusion, and each time that conclusion was
just as hopeless. There was but one way of escape .. .
by boat.
There were three boats at the inlet, and all of these
belonged to Pete Kubelik. One was the schooner that he
used for infrequent trips up the coast and to bring in supplies.
There were also two fishing boats, not much more
than dinghies, far too small in which to brave the sea that
lay outside. Yet escape she must, and immediately.
Returning to the bedside, she looked down at the
dying man who was her father. Lovable, impractical, and
a dreamer with an always restless heart, George Marrat
2
had never been able to remain still. Now, this lonely inlet
far south on the coast of Chile had trapped him, and
once there he could not leave.
Two things ensured that. One was his own health,
which failed rapidly in the cold, dreary world of San Esteban,
where the sun rarely shone and the sky was overcast
nearly three hundred days of the year. Yet had it been
his health alone, Julie could have managed. The other
element was Pete Kubelik.
From the moment they drew their ketch up to the
jetty and Julie turned to look into the piglike eyes of the
big trader, she had been frightened. Right then she asked
her father to leave, knowing that this was not a place
they should stay.
He was amazed. ?Why, Julie? We've only just come!
We can at least look around, can't we??
?No, Father, please! Let's go find somewhere else.?
Her father had turned to face Kubelik, and the big
man's brown face wrinkled in a smile. ?I'm afraid my
daughter doesn't like it here,?he confessed.
?Well,?Kubelik had replied, ?it ain't much of a
place for women, that's true, but there's gold here, plenty
of it!?
?Gold??Her heart sank at the eagerness in her father's
voice. What would he do if he found it? she wondered.
No man ever cared less for money, but in her
father's mind the concept of gold was so much more than
money. It was the reward that he was searching for, the
last reward that would somehow repair the life that luck
had deserted. But, ironically, that life without luck was
not his ... it was hers. ?There's gold here??
?Yes, sir!?Kubelik had turned and waved a hand at
the long spit of black sand that pointed into the inlet
from a nearby island. ?We've washed many a good stake
out of that beach! Best beach placer I ever saw! Was that
why you came here??
Had there been anxiety in the big man's voice? Julie
had looked at him again, and felt such revulsion that she
could scarcely stand to be near him.
3
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 3
Plodding along beside her father, Kubelik had dwarfed
him with his huge body. His face was round and moonlike
under the thick black beard. Wrinkles ran out in a
network of tiny lines from the corners of both eyes, eyes
that were small and cruel. His hands were dirty, the
fingernails black and broken. And then, for the first time,
she'd seen the gun. It was in a holster under his sheepskin
coat.
Not until later did Julie wonder that none of the
others came near them. An Indian woman standing in
the door of a driftwood cabin hurriedly stepped back
and closed the door when Julie started toward her. Despite
the inhospitable gesture, Julie had not been alarmed,
taking it for granted that the woman was naturally shy.
By midnight, when they moved into the inner room
at Kubelik's station and to bed, they had met only one
other man. He was a pasty Austrian named Rudy, and
seemed to be Kubelik's shadow. He rarely spoke, but
whenever Kubelik and Rudy shared a look, Julie realized
there was some silent communication. She saw other
people moving among the shacks, but they did not come
near the store.
That inner room had been Pete Kubelik's suggestion.
She had wanted to return to the boat, hoping that her
father could be talked into leaving, but Kubelik laughed
at her and waved her objections away with an impatient
hand. He would take it as an insult, he said. By all
means, they should stay. Entranced by his stories of
the coast, her father listened, and they remained. And in
the morning, their boat was gone.
She had just gotten out of bed when she saw through
the small window the empty pier where the ketch had
been left. Fear gripping her heart, she awakened her father.
George Marrat's face went pale, and for the first
time, he was afraid.
They rushed down to the beach, but the ketch was
nowhere to be seen.
Kubelik had come from the house, rubbing his eyes.
?What's the matter. Something wrong??
4
?Our boat's gone!?Marrat exclaimed. ?Lord, man!
What will we do? What could have happened to it??
?Wind, maybe,?Kubelik suggested, ?or some thief.
No use standing here. Come in an' let's fix breakfast.
Then we can take one of my boats an' look around.?
Yet when her eyes happened to meet those of Kubelik,
his had been triumphant.
Her father, despite his interest in the gold, was genuinely
worried. He knew the mountains were impassable,
that the forests were undergrown with thick moss, laden
with moisture, and a man could sink to his waist in
trying to struggle through. And by the end of the day,
they realized that the boat was gone and they knew they
would not find it.
?How about taking us to Puerto Montt??Marrat
had suggested. ?You have the schooner, and we can't
stay here. I have money in the bank back in Santiago.
Take us out, and I'll pay your price.?
?All right,?Kubelik had said thoughtfully. ?But
you'll have to wait until I'm ready to go for supplies. A
week or so, maybe.?
Yet when the week had passed, he said nothing
about leaving. Her father had been placer mining on the
beach and caught a severe cold. By that time, they had
moved to a small shack, refusing to accept more of
Kubelik's hospitality.
?I'm sorry, Julie,?George said. ?When I get well,
we'll get out of here and I'll make it up to you.?He
coughed, the breath rattling deep in his lungs.
?Get some rest,?she said. He nodded and relaxed,
breathing more easily. She sat there in the dark, a twentysix-year-old
woman who had failed in life, failed in marriage,
who had fled back to her father, a ne'er-do-well
adventurer, and ended up here, in a narrow fjord at the
end of the earth.
Her grandfather had been a Chilean who migrated
north with his son to fish the waters of British Columbia
and Alaska. Her father had spent much of his life in
Canada, and she was born there, schooled there, and had
been wed there.
5
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 5
Like many young girls, Julie had thought that marriage
would change her life, and indeed it had. But she
discovered that the qualities in a man that had appealed
to her when she was being courted were not the qualities
that made a good partner for life.
Her husband had been a dashing young bohemian
who could quote enough Spencer, Marx, or Freud to
prove any point. Unfortunately, for all his obsession with
the working man, he could not seem to hold a job. What
she had mistaken for intensity turned out to be selfobsession,
and the wild ways that she once thought were
delightfully liberated proved to be simple self-indulgence.
After six months he had disappeared to prowl the
bars and jazz clubs of San Francisco by himself, and she
fled back to her father in shame. Julie hid herself away
from the world on her father's boat, ashamed because
she had not been wise enough to choose the right man
and hadn't been strong enough to confront that man
about their problems.
George Marrat had never questioned her. Although
he had made many a poor choice himself, and life had
dealt him many a blow, he still met the morning with a
smile and fixed his eyes on the horizon. He planned a trip
south to show his daughter his homeland, to take her
mind off her problems. They would prospect on the
southern coast. If they could find a cannery and take on a
crew, they would fish the southern waters as he had in
Ketchikan and Port Albion.
But now they were here in this dismal settlement.
And George Marrat was very sick. Julie put her father to
bed and hurried to the store for medicine.
Pete Kubelik shook his head. ?Medicine??he said.
?Ain't got much. Aspirin, an' some cold tablets. Anything
more I can do, let me know.?
He came around the counter and leaned against it.
Despite her fear, she forced herself to stand still, but
couldn't look him in the eye.
?You know,?he said, ?we could get along, you an'
me. Gets mighty lonesome here, of a winter.?In the
corner, Rudy stifled a whispering laugh.
6
?I'm sorry, Mr. Kubelik. I couldn't do that. When
Father gets well, we will leave.?
?Suppose he doesn't get well? ?
Cold fear welled up within her. ?Oh, he will,?she
said firmly. ?He often has touches of cold like this. He'll
get well, and then we'll leave.?
Kubelik grinned at her, his teeth yellow and broken.
?Well, maybe,?he said. ?If I decide to take you up the
coast. Then again, I may just keep you here, sort of cornpany
for me.?
?That's ridiculous!?She looked up at him for the
first time. ?You couldn't get away with anything like
that! What about the authorities??
?The Chileans? The army? The police??He laughed
with genuine amusement. ?They don't come here. Know
why these folks don't come near you? Because I told 'em
to stay away, that's why. Know why they stay here? Because
they can't get away, either! They are pilin' up gold
for me. Me an' Rudy, here!?
He chuckled. ?Why, the government thinks this
place is abandoned. Nobody ever comes here, at
least,?his voice dropped to a whisper, ?nobody that
goes out again.?
Two days later her father died.
He died suddenly, in the night. Only for a moment
was he rational, and seemed to realize there was little
time left. He called her to him. ?Julie ...?His voice was
hoarse. ?I ...?He fumbled for words. ?I know what
happened to the boat. He . . . Kubelik ... he towed it
away. He hid it over at Rio de San Tadeo. One of the
others told me, that last day, workin' on the spit.?
?It's all right, Dad,?she said gently, ?we'll manage!?
The long gray miles of cold sea and the towering
cliffs that flanked it filled her with horror. In all the
world, there could be no more desolate place than this
coast north of Magellan. ?We'll manage,?she whispered,
but she knew he was dying.
They buried her father at the foot of a huge rock
three hundred yards up the canyon from San Esteban.
7
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 7
Several of the villagers were out for the funeral, but had
she ever hoped for help from them, she gave up now.
They were a thin, woebegone group, obviously afraid of
Kubelik, who towered above them.
There were six men in the village, she discovered,
four of them Chileans and two Yahgans, natives from the
Beagle Channel area. The four women were all Yahgans
but one, an Ona woman from Tierra del Fuego.
After the funeral, she talked with them while Pete
Kubelik and Rudy ignored her. They had the only weapons
among the group, and aside from the pistol which he always
carried, Kubelik possessed two shotguns and a
rifle. He had killed a man only a few days before their
ketch arrived.
Recalling Kubelik's anxiety over their discovery of
the place, she realized that was his greatest fear. Here
in his little kingdom, he ruled supreme while they slaved
for him and lived in abject fear of his rages. As he
controlled the only means of escape as well as the only
source of food, tobacco, and liquor, he was firmly in
the saddle.
?But what about the boats??she said to Aleman,
one of the villagers. ?Couldn't you steal one and
getaway??
?Not a chance!?he told her. ?His schooner has an
auxiliary engine, and he'd have us before we made a
dozen miles. Besides, where could we go on the supplies
we'd have? We are a long way from the nearest port.?
During the afternoon preceding her father's burial,
she tried to recall exactly what the chart had pictured.
The inlet was in the southeast corner of the Gulf of San
Esteban, and the Rio San Tadeo was to the north. Although
the chart indicated little of the nature of the
country back of the coast, she knew it was rugged mountain
and glacier. Of the beech forests, she knew only by
hearsay, but they were pictured as dark, fearsome places,
well nigh impenetrable.
It was raining when they finished the funeral service.
She started away when the grave had been filled, but Pete
8
Kubelik overtook her. ?Get your stuff, whatever you
got,?he ordered, ?an' move over to my place.?
It didn't take much to bring her to tears, but she intentionally
pushed her sorrow and terror to the forefront.
?Oh, not now! Please!?She sobbed hysterically, fell to
her knees moaning, ?My father. . . my father ...?
She made the most unappealing spectacle of herself
possible. Finally, in disgust, he shrugged it off. ?All right,
tomorrow, then,?Kubelik said, and trudged away.
She was rolling up her father's jacket when she
found the knife. Evidently, he had planned to use it
himself, yet it was no knife she had ever seen aboard
the boat. That meant he had acquired it since coming
ashore, either finding it or getting it from one of
the others.
The thought filled her with excitement. Perhaps ...
if one of the men had given the knife to her father, she
might have a friend out there. How could she know who
he was?
Holding the coat so anyone peeking through the
window could not see the knife, she examined the blade.
It was bright and gleaming, and obviously had not been
lying out in the weather.
The knife gave her courage. At least she could
kill herself. The thought of killing Kubelik came first,
but she dismissed the idea at once. He was too big, too
strong, and he wore too many thicknesses of clothing.
She would never have strength enough to drive the
knife home.
Then she remembered the tobacco. Her father had
come ashore prepared to trade, carrying a small sack
filled with plugs of tobacco, some large packages of
smoking tobacco, and a few cartons of cigarettes. In this
place, it was a veritable fortune.
She had seen how avidly the men clutched the tiny
packets of tobacco that Kubelik passed out. Maybe that
was how her father got the knife.
For a long time she thought, wondering about the
mountains and the inlet itself. If she could manage
to steal a boat, she might get to the San Tadeo at least,
9
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 9
and from there perhaps she could find her father's ketch.
She would need neither food nor water to go that far.
The thought of the eight miles against the engine
of the schooner changed her mind. The river was out of
the question.
Julie got up and put out her light, yet scarcely had
the cabin become dark when there was a scratching at
the window. Going to it, she stood to one side and peered
out. In the vague light she could see a figure crouching in
the darkness. Gently, she lifted the window.
?Missy? This Cuyu . . . you got tobac'. . . si??
Cuyu was one of the Yahgans. She remembered him
at the funeral. He had been one of those who carried her
father's body to the grave and helped fill it in. She remembered
his eyes as she'd turned away, how they had
seemed strangely gentle and compassionate.
?Yes! Yes, I have tobacco! Come to the door!?
?No door! He watch. He watch alia time! You speak
me here!?
?Cuyu, can you get me away from here? Can
you? Please!?
The Yahgan was silent. What sort of man was he?
Would he be even worse than Kubelik? She dismissed
that idea at once. Nobody could be worse.
?Can you get me to our ketch? My father was told it
was anchored over on the San Tadeo!?
?San Tadeo? Si. The boat, it there.?There was
sudden eagerness in Cuyu's voice.
She was almost frantic with excitement. ?Oh, Cuyu!
Take me to it and I'll give you all this tobacco! Yes, and
more, too. Can we steal a dinghy??
?No.?The finality of his voice ended that possibility.
?Maybe mountain.?His voice was doubtful.
?You strong? Walk fast? Climb??
?Yes, oh yes!?Suddenly he hissed, and then like a
shadow, he was gone.
Outside, in front of the cabin, she heard a crunch of
boots on gravel. Had Kubelik changed his mind? Was he
coming now? Or was he suspicious?
Instantly, she slipped off her shoes and got into bed,
10
hunching the blankets around her. He came to the door,
and she heard her latch lift, but the bar was in place. He
hesitated, and there was no sound. Fear welled up within
her. Suppose he broke down the door? Certainly, it
would be little effort for a man of his brute strength.
Praying she could make it sound right, she turned in the
bed, as though in sleep.
Footsteps crunched around the house, and she
felt rather than saw his head at the window. She had
been unable to close it in time, and hoped he would
believe she'd left it open for the air. He stood listening,
and she kept her breathing deep and regular, hoping
he would not look beneath the window for tracks.
Suddenly, a light flashed on her face. After a minute
of examination, he turned and walked away. Julie lay
rigid, listening to the retreat of his footsteps on the
coarse gravel.
It could have been no more than a minute before she
heard the Yahgan again. Instantly, she was at the window.
?I take,?he whispered, ?you bring tobac', si??
Swiftly, she dressed. She pulled on her boots and
thrust the knife into the capacious pocket of her coat. It
took her only a moment to climb through the window.
She passed the tobacco to the Yahgan, but he returned it
to her. ?You keep-for now,?he whispered.
Tugging at her sleeve, he moved off and away. Almost
before she realized it, they were working their way
through the gray trunks of ancient, long dead trees, and
then into the timber itself. Her feet tangled in a soft,
sinking bed of moss and she almost fell.
Cuyu caught her sleeve again and guided her in the
darkness to a deadfall. She perceived his purpose; by
walking on the fallen tree, they could keep out of the
moss. Yet it was only a short distance, and then they
were struggling in the knee-deep moss again. It was
heavy with moisture, and before they had gone fifty
yards she was soaked from the knees down. Yet Cuyu
seemed to have eyes like a cat, for he found one deadfall
after another.
11
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 11
How long they struggled and fought against the
clinging, wet fingers of the forest she had no idea. Time
and again she fell. She scratched her hands and face, but
she kept going, fighting with the strength of desperation
for every inch of distance. Suddenly, they emerged from
the forest.
She was amazed. Before them, white and wide in the
night, lay a glacier! Overhead, the clouds had momentarily
parted and a few friendly stars shone through, but
the Yahgan was looking at neither the stars nor the glacier.
He was moving swiftly out over the icy surface, and
the measure of his fear was the measure of her own.
From time to time he glanced back. Was he expecting
pursuit so soon?
Yet they made better progress now. Nor did Cuyu
waste time. He led off swiftly and she almost had to run
to keep up. That the Yahgan was frightened was obvious.
Leaving the glacier, they went up a steep, rocky trail
along an icy black cliff, then down through a ravine. It
was growing gray in the east, and despite all their travel,
she had the feeling they had gained little ground. From
time to time now, Cuyu stopped. He kept staring ahead,
then listening.
Something worried him. She was fighting exhaustion
now, for they had not only encountered the roughest
possible travel, but had kept up a pace far beyond
her strength. Yet the Yahgan showed no evidence of
tiring and no intention of slowing down. It was plain
that he knew that if they were caught, while she
might be taken back to the inlet, he would be killed on
the spot.
Cuyu turned now, changing his course to proceed
more directly north, but his eyes continued to watch
toward his left. Once, through a break in the curtain
of trees shrouding the cliff on her left, she thought she
saw water.
Was the fact that they must go down to the water
what Cuyu feared? Kubelik, guessing their route or
seeing their tracks, might use the boat to come around
12
the point and head them off. It would be pitifully easy,
and in a matter of an hour he could render useless their
night of struggle.
The dim game trail they had been following dipped
sharply down into a fantastically rugged gorge. Here the
moss was scarce, but the trees were laden with snow, and
there was an occasional patch of ice. They went down
the steep side, passing themselves from tree trunk to
tree trunk to keep from sliding or falling all the way to
the bottom.
A brawling stream roared along over stones, and
Cuyu dropped on his stomach and drank. Julie followed
suit, then got to her feet and looked around.
The gorge curved sharply right before them, and the
course of the stream led down toward the north. While
the direction was perfect for them and would make
travel easier, it must also lead to the inlet she thought she
had seen. Now she comprehended the reason for Cuyu's
hurry. He hoped to get to the mouth of the river before
they could be headed off.
He started again, with only a glance at her, nearly
running wherever the path was smooth enough to permit
it. At times they had to climb down over great tumbled
masses of white boulders, or walk gingerly across slippery
rocks, some of them covered with encroaching peat
moss from the forest.
They came out of the trees and into the open delta of
rocks and sand where the inlet met the mouth of the San
Tadeo River. There was no boat in sigljt, but they ran
now, trying to cover the exposed area as quickly as possible.
They reached the woods where the river poured
forth, a wide course of dark water rushing down from
the mountains, and Cuyu paused to let her catch her
breath. For a brief moment he grinned at her.
?Almos?to boat.. . you'll see.?
Slowly, they started upstream along the watercourse,
and soon, through the branches of the trees
ahead, she could see the white of the ketch's hull. It was
only a matter of minutes to reach the vessel. The trim
13
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 13
craft was tied up in a deep backwater out of the main
flow of the river. A good anchorage, Julie realized, but a
difficult one for her to maneuver out of even with Cuyu's
help. The ketch would have to be carefully backed and
turned into the river, with most of the backing being into
the current.
Without bothering to pull the boat in to shore,
she climbed out on a low hanging branch and dropped
to the deck. Cuyu followed as she made her way to the
pilot house.
?You take us away??he asked.
She could see that he was more terrified than ever,
now that they had reached their destination. Terrified
because, unlike the stretches of forest and glacier, this
was a place where Kubelik would have to come on any
search for them that he might make. She thought of the
difficult job of fighting the river's current with a reversed
engine, of how the ketch would slip sideways even as
it moved back, and feared what roots or rocks lurked
beneath the black waters of the San Tadeo. Sometime
toward morning there would be a tide, and that would
make her job much easier, but high tide was hours
away and she was sure they didn't have an hour, let
alone hours.
?I can try,?she mumbled. The thought of the miles
of gray, whitecapped water frightened her. She had
spent many months at sea, but never without her father.
She took a deep breath and reached out for the
switch that activated the pumps. Nothing happened.
She tried again.
But the moment she touched the console, she heard
it. Off in the distance, but not distant enough, was the
low thot-thot of an auxiliary engine. It could only belong
to Kubelik's schooner. She turned, and through the open
hatchway could see a movement through the trees that
blocked her view of the river.
?Quick!?she said to Cuyu. ?We must get off the
boat and hide.?But the native was already headed across
the deck. He jumped for a branch and pulled himself up.
14
Julie, desperate to know the full extent of her troubles,
flipped up the cover and glanced into the electrical console.
The battery cable had been removed, and the deck
boards were scarred where Kubelik had yanked it up
through the narrow channel. He had made sure that
no one was going to be taking the ketch out of the river,
at least not without winching it out of the backwater
and upriver against the current. She dropped the cover
and ran.
Back on deck, she saw Cuyu motioning frantically
from the bank. She'd started for the branch when a shot
rang out.
The Yahgan fled. The schooner was drawing into the
backwater, and standing in the bow, a rifle in his hands,
was Pete Kubelik!
?Cuyu!?Her cry seemed lost in the space between
the trees. ?Look out!?
She saw the Yahgan glance back, and then he left his
feet and dove into the brush and in that instant the rifle
barked. Did he stumble? Or was he already falling of his
own volition?
The rifle barked again, but she heard no whine of
bullet nor was she hit. Cuyu must have still been alive
then, and another shot had been sent to finish the job.
She heard Kubelik shout, and turned back to the cornpanionway.
Dropping down the ladder, she ran for her
father's cabin. Just as she unlatched the door she both
heard and felt Kubelik's schooner bump up alongside
the ketch.
Hanging from leather loops attached to the side of
the bunk was George Marrat's old Mannlicher carbine.
Julie jerked it free and grabbed up the leather
cartridge wallet that hung with it. Footsteps pounded
overhead. She had no time to load and barely time to
think. Kubelik was coming down the ladder. As she
ducked into the companionway she could see the back of
his legs as he descended. She slid through the galley door
and threw the lock, although that would hold him only
an instant.
Scrambling onto the mess table and pushing open
15
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 15
the skylight, she tossed the rifle through and started to
crawl out herself. Behind and beneath her, the door
splintered open. She rolled through the hinged skylight
as Kubelik roared, charging across the cabin.
Julie grabbed the carbine and plunged overboard.
The icy water hit her like a fist, a cold, solid hammer in
her stomach. Down she went, striking out toward the
shore but still sinking. Her clothes, heavy shoes, and
seven pounds of rifle carried her to the muddy bottom.
Her ears popped and she pushed off, hitting the surface
and gulping air. She saw a vague shape to her left and
grabbed out, her hand scraping along the side of Kubelik's
schooner. Her eyes cleared, and looking past the bow,
she saw Kubelik stalking along the rail of the ketch, rifle
in hand.
Julie Marrat took a deep breath and sank away from
the boat. A couple of strokes and she felt the bottom
again, and then the dirt and roots making up the side of
the backwater. A submerged branch hit her in the face,
and she grabbed at it, pulling herself up and along a
fallen log to the shore. She stumbled up and water
poured from her clothes in a rush.
There was a whip of air by her body and then the
slam of a rifle shot. Pete Kubelik jacked another round
into the chamber of his rifle, the spent case bouncing off
the deck of the ketch. On the schooner, Rudy came running
forward, shotgun in hand. She fell, rather than ran,
into a dark space between the trees.
?You come back here!?Kubelik roared. ?You come
back or I'll kill you!?
Now it was the air that was a freezing fist closing
on her lungs. Her sopping clothes clung to her as she
slogged, almost knee deep in moss, deeper into the
forest. Even as she ran she was sobbing with fear. Soon
she slowed, realizing that she was leaving a trail even a
blind man could follow, and found a deadfall like Cuyu
had used. She worked her way deeper and deeper into
the immense stand of beeches, and finally, shivering, collapsed
from exhaustion.
Her breath came in shuddering gasps, but as she
16
slowly caught her wind she became aware of the silence.
There was no noise of pursuit . . . there was almost no
noise at all. For the moment she was safe.
Except the cold would kill her. It was still in the midforties,
but her wet clothes would rapidly give her hypothermia,
and in the night the temperature would drop
another ten or fifteen degrees. She tried to hold herself
still and quiet her chattering teeth. There were still no
sounds of pursuit. She crawled around behind a fallen
log and pulled off some chunks of bark, but they seemed
too damp to burn. A long crack in the fallen tree, however,
gave her access to the inside of the trunk, hollowed
out by heart-rot, and from there she used the knife to
scrape out some light, dry, strips of wood.
Using a box of safety matches that she had taken
from the shack in San Esteban, she struck match after
match with no answering flame; they had become too
wet. Finally, she tried holding the match head against the
striking area with the ball of her thumb as she rasped it
along. The match flared but the pain in her hand made
her drop it in the moss, where it went out. Blowing on
her burned thumb, she was not surprised to find herself
cursing in a manner befitting a sailor or dockhand. Gritting
her teeth, she struck another match. There was the
smell of burning sulfur, and even as she pulled her thumb
away she knew she'd blistered it again; however, she lit
her tiny fire and slowly fed the flames. Then she stripped
the achingly cold clothes off, wrung them out, and laid
them out across the log near the fire.
Shuddering, half frozen, and naked, she huddled
by the log and prayed for her clothes to dry. In the dark
and silent wood, exposed in every way, Julie was sure
that this was when Kubelik would find her. He would
follow her tracks, even where she had tried to make
it hard for him. He would smell her fire. He would find
her and . . .
She turned and, fumbling with the cartridges, loaded
the gun. She put a round in the chamber and set the
safety. ?Damn you,?she whispered. ?Damn you, if you
come here, I'll kill you!?
17
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 17
Then she laughed.
She laughed at the picture of herself, stark naked and
freezing in a primitive forest, clutching a rifle and daring
a man like Pete Kubelik to come and get her. What made
it funny was the thought of her husband, champion of
the working class, seeing her now. That her often drunk,
ineffective coffeehouse bolshevik could never even imagine
this, which made her cough out a hard, mean laugh
from lips that were set in a snarl.
?Come on, damn you.?
From somewhere inside her there came a deep swell
of emotion. Some of it was the loss of her father. Some of
it was fear of this terrible man. Some of it was anger, finally
not with herself, but with her no-good husband.
But most of it was an emotion that had no name,
something ancient and primal, the feeling that a tiny
animal might have when, after being pursued to the
end of its endurance, it turns and bares its teeth. Not
only does it have to fight, but something inside it has
changed . . . now it wants to fight.
Morning found Pete Kubelik painfully awake in his
room at the San Esteban trade store. He had clumsily
fallen off one of the deadfalls that Julie Marrat had skillfully
negotiated in her escape the previous day. Kubelik
had sprained his ankle, and now the swelling had become
serious and excruciating. He took a sw«~ flow from
a bottle of vodka he had half finished the night before
and limped to the front door of the store. Throwing
off the heavy bar, he stepped out into the gray and drizzling
dawn.
Today he and Rudy would ha- -'to finish up what
that damn girl had started. Rega* iless of the pain that
shot through him every time he took a step, regardless of
the hangover pounding in his temples, he'd find Julie
Marrat, and if he couldn't make her come back with
him, he'd kill her. He'd kill her anyway, but there'd be
more pleasure for him if he brought her back alive.
He surveyed the long beach and the high cliffs. Time
18
to get moving. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but
that movement made his vision blur with pain.
Maybe he'd just kill her.
An invisible club knocked Pete Kubelik's bad leg
out from under him. He went face first into the sand,
gasping in shock. He lurched around, trying to sit up
even as the crack of the gunshot echoed back from the
cliffs. Looking down, he saw blood welling from a hole
dead center in his knee. He clawed for the pistol behind
his hip.
Down on the beach, less than one hundred yards
from the door of his store, the dark sand moved and
shook. Julie Marrat stood up from the place where she
had lain, half buried, through the night, the sights of
her father's old carbine trained on Kubelik's front door.
She worked the bolt on the rifle, and when Rudy came
charging out of the building, shotgun in hand, she shot
him in the stomach. Then she started forward.
Kubelik half raised the .45, but she spoke before he
could bring it to bear.
?Don't! I won't kill you if you throw it away.?
He was tempted to try, but the barrel felt heavy, too
heavy, and down in his leg the pain was starting to rise
like a giant comber. He dropped the gun and began to
curse, a long quiet stream of the foulest language Julie
had ever heard.
She picked the gun up. ?I came back for my battery
cable,?sile said. ?You shouldn't have taken it ... or
stolen our boat.?She went up to the store and took the
bolt from Kubelik's rifle. Then, using a rock, she beat the
hammers from the trader's shotguns. The cable she eventually
found lying on the deck of the schooner.
She fired up t! v schooner's auxiliary and threw off
the lines. Several ot ^e other inhabitants of the station
had come down to the water and were watching her curiously.
She called out to them.
?I'll leave this boat in the mouth of the San Tadeo
River if you want it.?They looked at her as she turned
and headed down the inlet and toward the gulf. The last
19
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 19
time she looked back, they had walked over to where
Pete Kubelik lay in the sand. They had all taken up sticks
or rocks, but were not striking him. They were just
standing there. Finally, they slipped out of sight as she
rounded the headland and started down to the sea.
.ng sudfank!
It's
He's no bit
d and hurried
«nced down at the
jrl, and we'll have
rrup, he put an arm
; nothing of this now,
sir!'
20
 MEETING AT FALMOUTH
Night, and the storm . . . howling engines of wind
roared over the Lizard and above the slate roofs
of Falmouth. Volleys of rain rattled along the
cobblestones like a scattering of broken teeth.
Shoulders hunched against the wind and rain, the
rider stared through the darkness toward a bend in the
road ahead. It was January of 1794, and the worst storm
of the winter was raging over the Atlantic, screaming
above Land's End and lashing Mount's Bay with its fury.
-Suddenly, a woman darted from the rocks beside the
road and lifted her hand. Startled, the man drew up
sharply, one hand dropping to his greatcoat pocket.
?Oh, sir! Sir!?
He looked down into the white, rain-wet face of a
girl. She was shabbily dressed, with an old piece of sailcloth
serving as a shield from the rain.
?What are you doing out here, girl??he demanded.
?You'll get a nasty nit of cold!?
?Sir, beggin' y( ur pardon, but are you Mr. Talleyrand??
?Talleyrand??HL was puzzled. ?No, I'm not Talleyrand,
and what would a serving wench like you be
wanting with him??
21
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 21
?It's up ahead, sir. I'm maid at the Bos'n's Locker, sir.
The inn, it is. There's a bad lot there, a-plottin' they are,
a-plottin' against Mr. Talleyrand.?
?And you came out here to warn him??
?I did, sir. I'd want no man murdered by them, not
even a Frenchman, sir.?
?And what makes you think Talleyrand will be
here tonight? Only yesterday he sailed from England
for America.?
?I know that, sir. They talked of it. But they think he
will be coming, sir.?
?Thank you, girl. Now you'd best get inside before
they find you're gone-?His voice broke off sharply as
two men came running through the rain.
Both were roughly dressed, and in a momentary lull
in the storm, he saw one of them wore a black patch over
his eye. A tall, lean man he was, with the face of evil
on him.
?So here you are!?His voice sounded shrill in the
storm. ?What are you doin' out here on the road, wench??
He grabbed at her shoulder and the girl stepped back.
Instantly, the rider pushed his horse between them.
In his hand was a drawn saber. ?Get back there, man! Leave
the girl alone! She came to bring me a message, and it
will be none of your affair!?
?Who're you??The man with the patch peered up
at him from the rain, careful to keep free of the saber
point. He blinked his eyes, then drew back, smiling suddenly,
almost leering. ?Ahhhh, torn! It's the Yank! It's
that American who's been about the tavern. He's no bit
of trouble for us, let's be back inside.?
Without another word, they turned and hurried
back through the rain.
When they had gone, the rider glanced down at the
girl. ?Put your foot in my stirrup, girl, and we'll have
you back to the inn in no time.?
When she had her foot in his stirrup, he put an arm
about her waist to steady her. ?Say nothing of this now,
not to anyone. You understand??
?Oh, yes sir! I'll not speak, sir!?
22
Dropping her to the ground, he then rode around to
the stable. A hard-faced man with a wooden leg limped
toward him, peering through the rain. ?Oh, it's you??
He accepted the bridle. ?Don't you worry, sir. I'll be
carin' for the mare.?
The American stamped his feet to shake off some of
the water, then walked swiftly across the worn cobbles to
the side door of the inn. There he repeated his stamping,
and opened the portal.
Wind almost tore the door from his hand, and the
candles gasped and went out. He stood stock-still, listening
carefully until the lights were glowing again. The
inn shutters rattled and, on the hearth, the flames guttered
and spat.
The man with the black patch over his eye was
hunched over a table with two other men. ?I tell you,
torn, they will never pass the Lizard this night!?
?What then??torn was a burly man in a shabby
cloak.
?Then it's here they will come! Only this morning,
Brynie sighted their ship, and fighting a head wind
she was! They'll put in here or be blown miles off
their course.?
?And if they come, we can still earn our guineas.?
The American gave them no second glance, walking
to a table near the fire and stripping off his rain-wet
cloak. He removed his saber and placed it beside the
cloak, but within easy grasp.
A compact, well-built man he was, but not large.
Obviously a gentleman, but more than that. His was a
strong, handsome face, his hair silvering at the temples.
With it he wore the air of one born to command, yet it
was a face that showed suffering, and was marked by
some deep tragedy.
Drawing a book from his pocket, he opened it. He
glanced up at the innkeeper. ?Sherry,?he said, ?and if
you have it, a bit of bread and cheese.?
He glanced at the pages of the book, then at the three
men. Slovenly rogues they were, if he had ever seen them.
23
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 23
Scum, but a bloody, dangerous sort of scum, and plotting
no good to anyone.
?Simple,?torn said then, waving a dirty hand, ?they
will come ashore, and if they come ashore, it's here they
must come. So then, we have them.?
?You speak of them ... it is him we want.?
?Garnet will know him.?
?A tall man, he is, a tall man with a limp, a fair bit of
nobleman and church.?
The American turned a page of his book. The plotters
had spoken in low tones, but their voices carried to
him. Still, they had said nothing to be noted . . . had he
not been warned by the maid.
Talleyrand ... he knew the name well. A refugee
from the French revolution now living in England, but
about to leave for America. His was the reputation of a
shrewd diplomat, cool but charming. He had a narrow
escape from the guillotine, but evidently had not left all
his enemies when he fled from France. These rogues were
British if he had ever seen them, the sort of scum that can
be had to kill for hire. But Garnet-that name had a
French sound.
Obviously, the plotters were correct. No ship could
beat past the Lizard on such a night, and if by some
chance she did pass, then she could never hope to get beyond
Land's End in the face of such a wind.
torn jerked his head toward the American. His voice
lowered, but could still be heard. ?Who's that one?
What...??
One of the others whispered a name, and all their
faces turned toward him. The American felt shame mingled
with anger send hot blood creeping up his neck and
face. He turned a page of the book and the print blurred
before his eyes. Dimly he heard the words, ?Not him.
He'll not interfere, not the likes of him.?
So they thought him a coward as well, did they?
Many things, but never that. He had been no coward at
Saratoga, he-
On the hearth, the flames hissed as a drop of water
24
fell down the chimney. The host, seeing his empty glass,
crossed the flags to him. ?Yes, Salem, if you please,?the
American said. ?It's a foul night and the wine warms a
man. They bottle with this, I think, some of the sunshine
of Spain.?
?That they did, sir. Would you have me leave the
bottle??
?If you will...?
Battalions of wind threw their weight against the
shutters, then withdrew, rattling them with angry fingers.
So they would never forget? A man made one mistake
. . . but it was the worst mistake. The worst of all.
The maid moved about the room, frightened and
pale. From time to time she darted a glance at him, but
the American continued to read.
Finally, the three arose, drew their cloaks about
them and left the tavern. The innkeeper moved to stoke
the fire, then placed a heavy chunk on the coals. He
threw a glance at the American, then jerked his head
after the departing trio. ?A bad lot that, sir. Gallows bait
for sure.?
?They are staying here??
?The night only, sir. I'd not have them longer if I had
to call the watch from Falmouth.?
?A good idea.?The American turned a page of his
book, then picked up his glass and drained it. ?Salem??
?Sir??
?There will be some Frenchmen coming alone. One
will be named Talleyrand. Would you tell him, from a
friend, to have a care? To be on his guard??
?From them, sir? There's that in the wind??
?More than we know, I'm thinking. You'll tell
him??
?Of course, sir. But-?
?As a precaution only. I'll be back.?
The maid started to speak, then stopped. Yet she
hurried to the door and looked up at him, her eyes frightened.
He chucked her gently under the chin. ?You worry
too much,?he said.
He opened the door then, stepped out and drew it to
25
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 25
behind him. Falmouth was a cluster of roofs several hundred
yards away. The Bos'n's Locker stood on the harbor
road away from the town. Overhead the sign creaked
dismally in the wind.
Drawing his collar tighter, the American bent his
head into the wind and turned down the road in the direction
of the docks. There was no trusting the men he
had seen. It would be like them not to wait for Talleyrand
to come to the inn, but to murder him along the
coast and throw his body in the sea.
It was not in him to sit idly by while a man was attacked
without warning. Or was it in part because he
was irritated with inaction?
Rain whipped his face and pounded at him with
tiny, angry fingers. He could see the men ahead of him
along the road, and when they stopped near some
dark buildings along the wharf, he drew back into the
shadows himself.
From the darkness nearby a man stepped. ?Followin'
'em, are ye? Now Dick'll be proud to know that. He-?
The American stepped quickly from the shadows
and one hand grasped the newcomer by the throat, the
other by the shoulder. Fiercely, he slammed the man back
against the building, took a twist of the man's collar
and let up only when he became afraid unconsciousness
would keep the other from understanding his
words. ?Open your mouth,?the very calmness of the
American's voice was more frightening than rage would
have been, ?and I'll have the heart out of you. Get away
from here now, and be glad that I haven't opened you up
with my saber.?
Gagging and pawing at his bruised throat, the man
staggered back, then turned and hurried away into the
storm. The American watched him for a few minutes,
then glanced back to where the others waited in the
darkness. Far away down the channel he thought he saw
a light, and he moved along the building, well back in the
darkness, his saber in his hand.
?Bloody awful night!?It was the man the others had
called Dick.
26
?It is that.?
?Any sign of her??
?I be'ant lookin'. Soon enough when they put
down a boat. If she comes, she'll come soon, you can
mark that.?
?Where then, Dick? Where'll we do't??
?We've got to see him, first. Garnet will show us
the man.?
An hour passed on heavy feet. The wind did not
abate, but the ship came. Her sails rolled up slowly, and
the sailors at the canvas were unseen in the howling
dark. They heard the rumble of her anchor going down,
and later the chunk of oars, a sound caught only at intervals
when the wind hesitated to gather force.
The American shifted his saber and dried his palm
on his trousers beneath his greatcoat. Then he clutched
the sword again.
He did not hear the boat come alongside, only suddenly
there were men walking and he heard the sound of
them speaking French. It was a language he knew, and he
listened. He learned much of what he knew in Quebec,
and this was but little different. But no names were
called, and the three men went by, two tall men and one
short, stout, and slipping as he walked. At times he ran a
few steps to keep up, and puffed when he slowed down.
Dick and his companions fell in behind, and the
American followed them. And so they came again to
the inn.
By then he was before them. He had run, and gotten
around them and into the back door as from the stable.
When they entered, he was again at his table, a glass of
sherry poured, and engrossed in his book. They entered,
and he glanced up.
?You are from the port??the American asked.
?From the sea.?The man who replied was tall, cold
of eyes, and walked with a slight limp. The American
knew him from description to be Talleyrand. ?We are for
America,?the man said.
?It is my country.?
Talleyrand glanced at him with quick interest.
27
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 27
?Then you can tell us of your country. We go there
as strangers. What can you tell of America? Is it a
fair land??
The American closed his book carefully. ?A fair
land? Yes, it is. If I were to tell you of it as I think of it,
you would think me a poet rather than a soldier. And I do
think of it, I think of it always.
The newcomers warmed themselves at the fire and
the American went on, speaking to them but to himself
also. ?You will find it colder there than here, but the
houses are strong and tight and warm. There will be less
talk of art and more of the frontier, less of books and
more of land, but there will be good food, and good
drink. You will find it a land of strong men, of fullbreasted
women, fit to mother a race of kings.?
?And this man Washington? Have you met him? We
in France have heard much of him.?
The American hesitated, glancing at his wineglass.
?Washington? Yes, I knew him. He is a great man, a
greater man than most of us believed. Though he does
not, you might say, have a flair. He is a shrewd, thoughtful,
considering man, but he has a temper.?
?So I have heard.?Talleyrand clasped his hands behind
his back. ?It needs a great man to retreat when all
around him are demanding a victory. He knew the important
thing was not to risk his army, to keep his
fighting force intact.?
The American gestured to the table. ?Will you
join me, gentlemen? With the wind as it is, you must
plan to stay for hours, perhaps for days. You are Monsieur
de Talleyrand??
?I am. And this is Monsieur de Fougier. And our
companion, Paul Garnet.?
The American looked around at the name. Garnet
had a hard face with cold eyes and a tight-lipped mouth.
So this was the traitor? He hesitated over that thought.
?You will like my country,?he said gently. ?It is a
fine, strong land. The earth will be frozen now, beneath
the snow. The rooftops will be white, and a thousand
chimneys will lift their fingers of smoke toward the sky,
28
but soon after you are there, the spring will come. The
trees will bud and the fields grow green, and the men will
plow the earth and you will hear the heavy wagons along
the dirt roads. It is a young land, monsieur, a growing,
raw, wonderful land, and . . . and ...?
Talleyrand smiled slightly. ?And it is your country.?
?Yes,?the American said quietly, ?it is my country.
It will always be my country, the only one for me. I have
only learned that now . . , and now it is too late.?
Suddenly, he looked up and saw that Dick was in the
doorway. torn was moving nearer, and Garnet suddenly
arose and stepped back.
The American's hand was beneath his coat. ?Talleyrand,
watch yourself, sir. I have been waiting to warn
you. Your life is in danger.?
Talleyrand did not move from the table. His eyes
flickered over the faces, came to rest on that of Garnet. If
he was surprised, he gave no evidence of it. This man,
who was for many years to be Europe's master of intrigue,
who was to think always of his country and not of
its ruler, was never to be surprised.
?You are clumsy, Paul. Had it not been for the
storm, we would have gotten away from you.?
?It does not matter. There was the storm!?
?But we are warned.?
?And unarmed,?Garnet replied coolly, triumphant
now.
?I am not.?
Their eyes turned to the American. He had drawn a
pistol from beneath his dress coat. In his right hand he
held the hilt of the still-sheathed saber.
There was something in that still, cold, handsome
face that sent a shiver of apprehension through Garnet.
This man . . . this man would not be afraid to die. He
would die hard, and not alone.
De Fougier lurched backward, his face white. The
three men faced the assassins. One pale and cowering,
one tall and straight and cool, one the mysterious soldier,
with a pistol in his hand.
29
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 29
?Well, gentlemen,?Talleyrand said coolly, ?what is
it to be? Are you ready to die, or will you retire quietly? ?
Garnet was furious. He glared at the American. ?He
has but one shot, and there are four of us!?
The American smiled. ?One shot, for you. And then
the saber. I fancy the saber, my man. I was of the cavalry
before this.?
Dick spoke up angrily. ?Belay the gab! It's him you
want, ain't it??He pointed an outstretched ringer at
Talleyrand. ?Then by the . . . !?He lunged, a dagger
suddenly gripped in his fist.
The American's pistol exploded and Dick halted in
mid-stride, his mouth falling open. At the same instant
there was a second explosion and Garnet turned half
around, then fell across the corner of the table. The table
tipped, crashed on its side, and the wine bottle rolled off,
struck the fallen man on the back, then rolled off onto
the floor. The American stood with drawn saber. But the
two others fled into the storm, the wind slamming closed
the door behind them.
The second shot had been fired by Talleyrand, who
held a small pistol. There was a flicker of irony in the
Frenchman's eyes. ?Yes, my American friend, even a
diplomat knows that words must occasionally be backed
with force.?He glanced at the fallen man. ?Very likely
you've saved my life.?
The American bent and retrieved the bottle from the
floor. ?And we did not break the wine.?
Talleyrand glanced at the bodies of the two men. ?It
would be just as well if we went to some other place.
There'll be trouble here soon.?
?Monsieur??
Talleyrand turned to face the American. ?Yes??
?If you will take the advice of one who is gone from
his own country-go back to France. If that is not politically
possible now, then go back when you can, as soon
as you can. Believe me, monsieur, far better than any
other, I know there is no country like one's own, and you
will not be happy serving another.?
30
?It is good advice, but now we go to America. Could
you give me letters of introduction to someone there? It
would be a great favor.?
The American shook his head regretfully. ?I am
sorry, that I cannot do. I am perhaps the only American
who cannot.?
Their eyes held. Talleyrand hesitated. ?Then, your
name, sir? You can tell me that.?
The American stiffened. His face was resigned and cold
with pride and tragedy. ?My name is Benedict Arnold.?
31
 ROUNDUP IN TEXAS
i
The instant Ward McQueen saw the horsemen in
the basin below, his heart leaped with quick apprehension.
That would be Kim Sartain astride
the sorrel, and the other riders, three of them, had him
neatly boxed.
Touching spurs to the strawberry roan, McQueen
went down the hill at a dead run, then slowed up as he
neared the group. He saw Yost's face flash with anger
and disappointment as the man recognized him. Ward
drew up.
?All right, boys,?he said. ?Break it up!?
In a moment the situation had changed appreciably.
The three riders had Sartain in such a position that he
would be covered from three sides if he started to fire.
There would be no chance for escape.
Ernie Yost's expression showed his uncertainty. The
odds still favored them three to two, but now one of the
three, Ike Taylor, had his back to McQueen. Ward had
stopped his horse to the left rear of Sartain, and could
fire at all three men without endangering Sartain. Taylor
was now in the middle, between Ward and the guns of
his two friends.
32
?If any shootin' starts, boss,?Kim suggested quietly,
?I'll take Yost!?
Ernie's face flamed with dark blood, but he hesitated.
He was no fool. Kim Sartain had once flashed a
gun in his presence at Sotol, against a half-crazed
Mexican killer who had Kim covered, but the Mexican
never got off a shot.
As for Ward McQueen, the foreman of the Tumbling
K had held a reputation in Texas long before he went off
to Wyoming and Nevada. He was known to be a deadly
gunfighter. Taylor was as good as dead if shooting started,
and without Taylor, Ernie Yost wanted no part of it.
Yost spoke calmly. ?This rider of yours is on the
prod, McQueen. He ordered us off the range.?
?What business have you here??McQueen demanded.
Ike Taylor was sweating blood in his present position.
He started to shift around.
McQueen's voice was sharp. ?Ike, you sit still or I'll
drill you!?
Taylor swallowed and sat still, his eyes haunted. He
was filled with regrets, wishing he were in Sotol, or any
other place but here.
Yost's face had darkened again. ?A man has a right
to ride anywhere he wants!?
?No, he doesn't!?McQueen wasn't hedging. Had
he arrived thirty seconds later, Sartain might have been
dead. ?You don't run any cattle, Yost. You have no business
on this range at any time. We're working cattle here,
and we don't like rustlers. Now you get off and stay off!?
Yost was bursting with hatred. His hands trembled
as he strove to compose himself. ?Some day you'll go too
far, Ward!?
?Call it when you're ready!?Ward answered
sharply. He stepped his horse nearer at a walk. He was
angry and ready. ?Why not now??
No one had ever accused Ernie Yost of cowardice,
yet, in this situation, he could see no hope. He had never
faced deadlier gunmen than Ward McQueen and his
dark-faced segundo, Kim Sartain.
?All right,?he flared suddenly. ?I'll stay off!?He
33
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 33
turned his horse with a jerk and started to walk away.
Villani and Taylor wasted no time in following.
The two riders sat on their horses and watched until
they were over the rise. ?Reckon we ought to follow??
Sartain wondered.
?No. Let's get back. There's work to do.?
Sartain glanced up at him. ?You showed up at the
right time, boss,?he said dryly. ?Another minute and
they would have had me.?
?They were set for a killing, all right,?Ward agreed.
?I don't savvy it. Ever had any trouble with them??
?Not until I ordered them off.?Sartain was puzzled.
?But there's more to this than meets the eye.?
They rode away. But as they topped the rise, Ward
removed his hat and anxiously mopped his brow as he
stared down at the dusty herd below them. When Ward
had bought that stock from Old Dick Gerber, it had
looked like a godsend. Long ago, he had worked for
Gerber, and knew the tight-fisted old rancher well. That
was before Ward had gone to Nevada and become
foreman of the Tumbling K, Ruth Kermitt's ranch.
In all his dealings, the old man had seemed to be
strictly honest and reliable, so when he showed McQueen
a tally book, and the records amounted to over four
thousand head, Ward decided to buy. The price seemed
reasonable enough. Ward had, however, insisted upon a
guarantee. At first Gerber had balked, but finally agreed
to guarantee three thousand head.
The guarantee was something on which Ward would
never have insisted had he been buying the herd for
himself. He just wanted to be sure that Ruth got her
money's worth. The price he paid had been for four
thousand head, the whole procedure handled in the
somewhat loose and careless manner typical of the
West of that era.
Now, however, the number of cattle was running far
below four thousand, and McQueen could not understand
it. He still firmly believed that Dick Gerber's count
was honest, and knowing the old man, he knew that
Gerber's methods were not slipshod.
34
?The tally's fallin' short, ain't it??Sartain asked. He
knew McQueen was worried. ?Do you suppose Yost
would know anything about that??
?How could he? Our own boys are handlin' this
roundup. Yost hasn't been around-just my riders and
the few of Gerber's I kept on to handle the branding.?
Buying as he had, without waiting for the completed
tally, he had saved money, for Gerber had insisted that
the deal be made before the roundup. The difference was
considerable. Now it could take all their profit away.
The ranch in Nevada had been making money
steadily, and it had been Ruth Kermitt's idea to stock
it with more cattle. They could, she suggested, pick up
a herd in Texas and drift it north, letting it feed as
it moved.
McQueen liked the plan. With luck they could sell
enough cattle at the railheads in Kansas or Nebraska
to pay expenses, and possibly, with luck, even pay for
the herd.
Buying cattle on the range could often prove very
profitable, for in many cases the completed tally would
run higher than the estimate. McQueen, knowing Gerber,
had little hope of exceeding the tally.
?Bud?Fox and ?Baldy?Jackson, the two hands
that had come south with them, were drifting their way.
?Brought in about thirty head,?Bud volunteered as they
drew near.
?Any unbranded stock??
?Nope. Gerber must have figured wrong on that because
most of the stuff we're findin' has to be vented.?
?Where is that KT rep??Ward asked. He started to
build a smoke, studying the cattle thoughtfully.
?Buff Colker??Jackson rubbed a hand over his
bald pate. ?He's off to Sotol, as always. Said he had to
mail a letter.?
Sartain chuckled. ?Shucks, Baldy! You're just jealous
because you can't go in, too.?
?Jealous??Baldy snorted. ?Of that Kansas City
cowhand? ?
35
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 35
?Buff sure ain't around much,?Bud Fox agreed.
?He takes his reppin' job easy.?
?If those outfits he's workin' for can stand it, we
can,?McQueen said. ?How's it look back in the breaks,
Bud??
?Cleaned out, almost. There's a few steers around
that we might pick up, but most of them are wild as
deer.?
Forget them,?Ward advised, ?they aren't worth it.
We could waste a month combing that chaparral an'
never get them out.?
Kim Sartain spoke thoughtfully. ?You know that
Colker hombre sure puzzles me. He says he goes to Sotol,
but remember that time you sent me in after some
smokin' for the boys? Well, Buff was supposed to be
there, too, but I didn't see him.?
?Maybe you just didn't run into him,?Bud said.
?In Sotol??Sartain stared at Fox with utmost disgust.
?You couldn't hide a pack rat in that place! You
could cover the whole durned town under a Mexican's
saddle blanket!?
Ward McQueen reined in and lounged loosely in the
saddle, staring unhappily at the herd. Tonight he would
ride in and have a talk with Ruth. He would have to tell
her that his deal had been a poor one. Scowling, he tried
to think if there was any spot they had somehow missed.
Still, with Perkins, Gallatin, Jensen, and Lopez working
for them, all men who knew this range, there was small
chance of overlooking anything.
When the hands finished bunching the herd, Kim
drifted his way again. ?Riding into Sotol, boss??
McQueen slanted his eyes at the casual young rider.
?Yeah, what about it??
?Nothin'.?Kim shrugged carelessly. ?Figured you
might let me ride along. Sort of wash some of the dust
out of my throat!?
Ward grinned. Few men cared so little for drinking
as Kim Sartain. The rider was a top hand, but he liked a
good fight, and Ward knew he was thinking of Yost.
36
?I don't want any trouble, Kim. You know how
Miss Kermitt is.?
Sartain turned his horse, riding toward the ranch
house beside McQueen. ?Boss, when are you and Miss
Kermitt tyin' the knot??
Ward looked around. ?We don't plan on gettin'
married until we get back to Nevada.?He shrugged.
?Maybe after she hears what a bad deal I made for her,
she won't want to.?
?Boss,?Kim said hesitantly, ?did you ever figure
that maybe this Gerber lied? He wouldn't swear there
was over three thousand.?
Ward spat and swung the horse up to the corral.
?Did you ever see the time you could swear to how many
head you had on a ranch? I never could.?
Sartain got down and began stripping the saddle
from his sorrel. ?I could guess within a thousand head,?
he replied.
Ward McQueen stopped a moment and frowned uneasily.
Maybe he had been wrong in trusting Gerber.
After all, the old man was notoriously tight-fisted, and
he might not be above dishonesty with a man who came
from so far away, and was on his way back. The thought
rankled McQueen.
II
Ruth Kermitt was waiting for him on the steps of the
hotel when he cantered up the street and swung down.
She was smiling as he joined her.
?After you talk to me,?he said, ?you may not look
so happy. Have you eaten??
?Yes, but I want some more coffee with you.?
She was a tall girl, her dark hair gathered in a loose
knot at the nape of her neck. Her wide, blue eyes examined
his face as he lifted his cup. She could see the lines of
weariness etched there, the worry in his eyes.
?What's wrong, Ward??she asked.
37
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 37
He sighed. ?We bought four thousand head accordin'
to Gerber's tally book. We won't get more than
three thousand.?
Her lips tightened. ?Oh! I was afraid of something
like that.?
?Me, I'd have sworn by Gerber.?
The door to the room smashed back suddenly, and
Ward looked around. Five men had come into the cafe.
In the lead, his blue eyes flashing from his brown, windburned
face, his untrimmed white hair falling to his
shoulders, was Old Dick Gerber. Behind him were four
hard-faced riders.
Gerber sighted Ward and crossed the room swiftly.
?McQueen!?Gerber's voice rang in the narrow
room. ?It's come to my ears that you say I lied about my
tally on that herd! Did you call me a liar??
As Ward McQueen carefully got to his feet, the door
opened quietly behind him.
?I'm with you, boss.?It was Kim Sartain's voice.
?No, Dick, I didn't say you lied.?
?The great McQueen, takin' water!?sneered one of
the riders. A big man known as Black.
Ward's eyes shifted to Black. ?I'm not takin' water.
It's just I've known Dick Gerber a lot longer than I expect
to know you.?
His eyes turned to Gerber's. ?Dick, you sold me four
thousand head of cattle according to your tally. I took
your word and the word of your book. I worked for you,
an' that tally book of yours was somethin' to swear by. I
had no doubts.?
Gerber stared at him, still resentful. ?What's the fuss
about then??he demanded.
?Because we've had our roundup, an' we've only
netted three thousand head.?
?Three thousand??Gerber stared. ?Ward, you're
crookin' me! If you only found three thousand head,
you've snuck some off somewheres.?His mouth tightened.
?Ah? Maybe that's it? Maybe you figure to get me
on that guarantee! Well, I won't stand for it, Ward!?
38
Ward's face flushed. ?All I want is a square deal.?
?He's askin' for trouble, Gerber,?Black said. ?Let
me have him.?
?Listen, big ears,?Sartain took a step into the room,
?if you're so anxious to throw iron, suppose you come
out in the street an' throw it with me??
?Kim!?Ward barked. ?Stop it!?Ward wheeled on
Black. ?And you shut up! Gerber, get that man out of
here, and get him out fast! If we start shootin' in this
room, nobody will get out alive. And we've a woman
here, remember that!?
Dick Gerber's anger left him. Realization broke over
him that what Ward said was true. Ruth Kermitt was
there. To throw a gun when a woman was present was
out of reason.
?Quiet down!?Gerber snapped. ?You, Black, mind
what I say.?He turned back to McQueen. ?I'm sorry,
Ward. Maybe I went off half-cocked, but I sure ain't
the man to bunco anybody. I figure you of all people
knew that.?
?Mr. Gerber,?Ruth said quietly, ?just before you
came in Ward was saying that even though there was a
problem he would swear by you.?
The old man looked around. ?I guess I'm a fool,?he
said, and dropped into a chair. ?I never figured on
makin' a shootin' match of it, Ward. I was just too mad
to think.?
?Forget it and let's have a talk.?Ward glanced at
Sartain. ?Kim, we don't want any trouble.?
?That goes for you boys, too,?Gerber told his men.
?Ward an' me'll find some peaceful way to handle this.?
As the hands trooped out, the door pushed open and
into the room swaggered a big man, broad shouldered
and blond. He was nattily dressed in black and he smiled
when he saw Ruth.
?Oh, Miss Kermitt! I was looking for you. They told
me in the office that you had come in here with one of the
hands. Are you ready now??
Ward McQueen looked around, astonished. The
39
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 39
man was Buff Colker, the rep for the KT outfit, but he
had never looked like this on the range. Then, as Colker's
meaning swept over him, his face flushed and he glanced
around at Ruth.
?Why, yes, Mr. Colker, just one minute.?She turned
quickly to Ward and put her hand on his. ?I wasn't sure
that you'd be in tonight,?she said, ?and Mr. Colker
askedifhe might call. Do you mind ??
For a moment Ward McQueen sat still, resentment
burning within him. He had a half notion to say that he
certainly did mind. Then he shrugged it off.
?No,?he said, ?I've got to talk with Gerber, anyway.?
Yet as she arose and walked with Buff Colker into
the other room, he glared after them. ?Make a nicelookin'
couple,?Gerber suggested thoughtfully. ?She
ain't married, is she??
?We came here to talk about cattle.?McQueen's
voice had a faint rasp.
?Sure,?Gerber agreed. He pulled his tally book
from his pocket. ?Got money, that young Colker has. I
often wonder why he works for the KT, but maybe he figures
to go into the cattle business.?
He put on his glasses and peered at the book. ?Now
let's see: there were a couple of hundred head in Seminole
Canyon. Did you get those out??
Two hours later Ward McQueen stalked into the saloon,
irritated and unhappy. Despite their discussion and the
careful checking of the record Gerber had kept, there
was no accounting for the missing cattle. Yet a thousand
head of cattle cannot just vanish, nor can they be hidden
with ease.
Sartain was sitting alone at a card table idly riffling a
deck of cards. He had his flat-brimmed gray hat shoved
back on his head and was watching Black like a cat. The
big gunman looked around when Ward came in, and
watched as he walked over and dropped into a chair
with Kim.
40
Sartain riffled the cards through his fingers and,
without looking up, commented, ?That Black has money.
He buys drinks pretty free for a forty-dollar cowhand.?
He has money. The words flitted through McQueen's
mind, and then were lost as the door shoved open and
Ernie Yost came in, accompanied by Villani and Taylor.
Taylor averted his eyes hastily. One of the three,
McQueen reflected, was content to let well enough I
alone. Watching them, Ward was struck by the fact that I
||| Yost, staring straight across the bar, was speaking out of
the corner of his mouth. The man beside him was Black.
Black's eagerness for trouble and a few words exchanged
with Yost lingered in Ward's brain. What was
between those two? Was Black tied in with Yost? What
was going on around here?
?Let's leave, Kim. We've got a hard day tomorrow.?
Mounting, they turned down the trail toward the
ranch, but as he glanced back, Ward saw Ruth saying
good night to Colker on the steps of the hotel. ?He's got
money.?That was what Gerber had said of Colker. It
was also what Sartain had said of Black. Could there be a
tie-up there? Did their money come from the same
source? Or was jealousy leading him down a blind alley?
What was the source of Black's money? The man
had the earmarks of an owlhoot.
?Glad you got me out of there,?Kim said, ?I reckon
I'm sleepier'n I thought.?
Sleepier was right. Sleep-er.
Ward's dark mood was gone in a flash. He jerked
around in the saddle. ?Kim, have you been over to that
herd of cattle we've cut for the other brands??
Kim looked up, half awake. ?No, why should I?
We're through with them.?
There must be at least two or three thousand head of
KT, Broken Arrow, and Running M cattle in that herd,
McQueen thought. That was a big herd, a very big herd.
It was almost noon the next day when he rode down to
the roundup crew. McQueen had been thinking and
41
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 41
checking. Sartain was sitting on a small gray horse, and
Jackson was nearby. They had just knocked off for a
brief rest.
Perkins and Lopez were sitting on the ground while
Gallatin and Jensen were just riding up. Ward dropped
from his horse and walked up to Lopez.
?Lopez, what horse did you ride yesterday??
Lopez hesitated. ?Bay pony, senor.?
?A bay??Baldy looked around. ?You must be forgetful.
You rode that blaze-faced black with the broken
hind hoof.?The Mexican looked at him, then got to his
feet, and he suddenly looked sick.
?That's right, Lopez.?McQueen's thumbs were
tucked in his belt, and around him the other riders were
silent. ?Now tell me what you were doing moving cattle
at midnight.?
?I, senor'}?Lopez's eyes shifted right and left. ?I was
moving no cattle. I was in my bunk, asleep.?
?A lie!?Ward's tone was brutal and he moved a step
nearer. ?You took that black horse out again, and you
an' somebody else cut some cattle from the unbranded
herd and moved them over into those mixed brands!?
?Sleeperin', by golly!?Baldy slapped his leg. ?Sleeperin'!
Why didn't I figure that? An' nobody ever checks
that herd of mixed brands. After we're finished here,
they'll just be left to drift back on the range from that
long valley where you're holdin' 'em.?
?And then these rannies could move in an' brand the
unbranded stock for themselves. Nice business.?Bud
Fox dropped a hand to his six-shooter. ?Do we down
him, boss??
?Not if he talks.?Ward walked up to the Mexican,
whose face was a sickly yellow now. ?Lopez, who's
bossin' this show? Tell me an' you can go free.?
?Let me have a hand at him!?Gallatin shoved forward,
his face grim and his eyes narrow. ?I'll fix him
for you!?
?Keep out of this!?Ward snapped. ?I'll talk to
you, later! I've a good notion you're the other one in
this mess!?
42
Gallatin sprang back, his face suddenly wolfish.
?Oh, you think so, do you? Well, by-?His hand swept
down for his gun.
?Stop!?Ward yelled. ?Drop it or I'll kill you!?
Gallatin was crouching and his gun kept lifting.
?Drop,nothin'!?
Ward palmed his six-gun in a flashing movement
and flame stabbed from the black muzzle. His own gun
coming up too slow, Gallatin caught the lead slugs in the
stomach. He gulped, then staggered slowly back, his eyes
glazing, the gun slipping from nerveless fingers.
Ill
Hooves clattered and a shout went up. McQueen whirled
in time to see Lopez streaking away on the horse the
Mexican had just freshly saddled. Ward's gun came up,
but the rustler was in a direct line with two men on the
far side of the herd, and he dared not fire.
?Gone!?He swore. ?He got plumb away.?
Baldy Jackson reached for his bridle reins. ?Boss,
we'd better get at that mixed herd. Now they'll probably
move in an' try to rustle the works. We'd better start
cuttin' her.?
?We're not in on any deal with Gaily or the Mex,?
Jensen said. ?You can ask Dick Gerber. I rode for him
four years.?
Ward glanced around at them. ?Either of you know
their friends? Who did they see in Sotol??
Jensen hesitated. ?Well, I reckon that Black who still
rides for Gerber was the only one. They were pretty thick
when they both rode for this spread. And then Villani.
He worked for Gerber for a while, then left him after
some trouble over a bridle, and he went to hangin' out
with Ernie Yost.?
?That fits.?Sartain nodded. ?They all run together.
The same brand wears well on them. Let's go coyote
huntin', boss.?
43
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 43
Ward McQueen hesitated. That was one thing, but
the cattle came first. He must at all costs protect Ruth's
cattle. ?No, we'd better start workin' that mixed herd
an' cuttin' our unbranded stock out of it.?
?Boss, that Mex didn't head for Sotol,?Bud suggested.
?He took out for the mountains an' I've a good
idea he's more set on gettin' safe away than tellin' Yost
what happened here. Why don't we lay low an' check
that herd today??
?All right.?Jensen was facing Ward, and he motioned
to the body of Gallatin. ?Plant him over by those
trees, will you? Before anybody sees him. And I don't want
it mentioned all day, you hear? Not in front of anybody!?
Sartain crooked a leg around his saddle horn. ?Boss,
I reckon Buff Colker will be out here soon.?
?I said anybody.?Ward turned to Bud. ?I like your
idea. We'll start cutting the mixed herd again tomorrow.
Today we'll keep on with the branding, and tonight,?he
glanced at Baldy, then at Kim, ?tonight we'll stand guard
by that unbranded herd. If anybody starts to move those
cattle we'll be ready for them.?
The day drew on, hot and dusty. There was no
breeze, and Ward nervously glanced at the sky from time
to time. It felt like a storm was building up.
A cloud of dust hung over the corral where the
branding was done, and the hands kept working up new
bunches of cattle from the herd of the unbranded. Sartain
was handling a rope, and Baldy was working with a
branding iron. Buff Colker had arrived and sat his paint
horse near the corral.
?KT, one calf!?Baldy yelled, slapping the iron
on the animal, which bawled plaintively. ?Tumblin' K!
One calf!?
Colker checked the KT in his tally book and wiped
the dust and perspiration from his brow. Ward McQueen
was studiously avoiding the KT rep. He put his rope on
a white-face steer and spilled the beast close to the
fire. Baldy slapped the iron and yelled, ?Tumblin' K!
One steer!?
44
Colker slapped his book shut and turned his horse.
?Guess I'll ride along, McQueen,?he said, ?I've got
business in town!?
Ward glanced around, his lips tight. ?Go ahead,?he
said. ?We don't need you here.?
Buff laughed sardonically. ?Maybe there's somebody
else that needs me.?
McQueen's face flamed. ?I don't know what you
mean by that, Buff,?he said evenly, ?but you'd better
beridin'.?
?That lady boss of yours seems to like what I say.
Pretty little thing, I'll say that for her.?
McQueen turned his roan. ?If you're goin',?he
warned, ?you better hightail it while the goin's good.?
Colker laughed, his eyes hard and the sneer evident.
?Ward,?he said, ?you're a fool! After I've had my
way with her, I'll come back here an' teach you a couple
of things!?
He wheeled his horse and started at a gallop toward
the Sotol trail. Ward McQueen's face went hard and
white, and he wheeled his horse and went after Buff like
a streak.
?Lord help that Colker now!?Baldy said. ?The boss
is sure boilin'. I wondered how much he'd take from that
four-flusher!?
?Look!?Kim yelled excitedly. ?This is goin' to
be good!?
Too late, Buff Colker turned to see what was happening.
Ward's roan had covered the ground in a short
dash that brought him alongside Colker's galloping
horse. Quickly, Ward reached down and grabbed the
paint horse's tail and whipped it to one side, shoving the
horse hard with his knee.
It was a process used often on the range to throw a
steer, and when the animal, whether horse or cow, was
traveling at all rapidly, it would invariably be spilled on
the head and shoulder. It was known as ?tailing,?but
was rarely used on a horse unless the animal was of little
or no value.
45
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 45
Colker and the animal went flying. He sprang to his
feet and clawed for his gun, then stopped. Ward was on
the ground facing him, and had him covered. Colker had
never even seen Ward draw.
A dozen cowhands had crowded around. ?Bud,?
Ward said, ?take his gun. I'm goin' to teach this cowboy
a lesson!?
?What do you mean??Colker snarled. His face was
white, but his eyes blazed. ?You aimin' to shoot me
down like a dog??
?No, amigo,?Ward said harshly, ?I'm goin' to beat
your thick skull in with my fists.?
Abruptly, Buff grinned. ?You're goin' to fight me
with your hands? I'll kill you!?
Fox slid the gun from Buff Colker's holster, and
Ward stepped over to Kim Sartain and hung his own gun
belts around his saddle horn. Then he turned.
Across the wide ring of horsemen, he faced Buff
Colker. Buff was the bigger man, young, wide-shouldered,
and tough. He was smiling and confident. Buff paused
long enough to strip off his shirt. Ward did likewise.
Then the two men moved together.
Colker came fast and lashed out with a left that
caught Ward coming in, but failed to stop him. McQueen
crowded Colker and threw a short left, palm up, into
Buff's midsection as they came together, Ward turning
his body with the punch. It jolted Buff, but he jerked
away and smashed both hands to Ward's face. Ward
tried to duck a left, and caught another right. Then he
closed in and threw Colker hard with a rolling hip-lock.
Buff came up fast and dived at Ward's knees and they
both went down, and then they were up and fighting, toe
to toe, slugging. The two men came together, throwing
their punches with everything they had in them.
Eyes blazing with fury, Buff sprang close, swinging
with both hands. The dust rose from around their feet in
a thick cloud, so at times the fighting could scarcely be
seen. Neither man would give an inch and they fought
bitterly, brutally, at close quarters. This was old stuff to
46
Ward, for he had battled in many a cow camp brawl, and
he kept moving in, his head spinning and dizzy with
rocking blows, his hands always set to punch.
Blood trickled from a cut lip, and he had the taste of
it in his mouth. Overhead the sky was like a sheet of iron,
molten with heat. Ward set himself and slammed a right
to the body. Again Buff was jolted, and he stepped back,
and McQueen moved in, advancing his left foot then his
right. He worked in, then threw his right again. Buff's
hands came down and Ward lunged, swinging high and
hard with both fists, and Colker went down in the dust
and rolled over.
?Put the boots to him!?Baldy said. ?He'd give them
to you!?
?Let him get up!?Ward panted. ?I want more
of him!?
Colker staggered to his feet and stood there weaving,
the hatred in his eyes a living thing. He lunged, suddenly.
But Ward met him with a stiff left hand that stopped
him flat-footed and left him wide open for a clubbing
right. It caught Colker flush on the ear, and Buff went
down to his knees, the ear beginning to puff almost as he
hit the ground.
Ward moved in, staggering with exhaustion. He
jerked Colker to his feet and, holding him with his left,
struck him twice in the wind and then three blows with
his right in the face. Then he shoved the man from him,
and Buff staggered and tumbled into the dust.
McQueen walked back to his horse and leaned
against it for an instant, then picked up his shirt and
began to wipe his face and body with it.
?Better get started on those cows,?he commented.
?We've a lot to do.?
Baldy stared at him grimly. ?You better go up to the
cook shack and get that face fixed up,?he suggested.
?You look like chopped beef. But not,?he added with
satisfaction, ?near so bad as he does!?
Colker was still stretched on his face, and Bud Fox
glanced at him. ?Shall we pick him up??he asked.
?Let him lay!?Baldy told him. ?He needs the rest!?
47
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 47
When he had bathed his face and repaired the cuts
as best he could, Ward McQueen studied the situation.
He was wrong to have let Buff Colker goad him into a
fight. Nobody ever gained anything permanent by violence
despite the satisfaction derived from a solid smash
of a fist.
Colker was not his problem. He knew that Gallatin
and Lopez had been sleepering cattle, and there seemed
to be a connection between them and the Yost crowd,
and possibly with Black.
He must find something more concrete in the way
of evidence. Without returning to the corral, he dropped
to a seat on a wooden bench in the shade near the back
door of the cook shack. From where he sat he could
see the dust rising from the branding corral, and the
hills beyond.
The cook stuck his head out of the door and grinned
at him. ?Coffee, sewor??
?You bet, Pedro! An' thanks.?
Sleepering cattle by day was a risky job, but it had
been done. Baldy and Bud had the right idea, to check
the herd by night and watch for the rustlers. Gerber himself
might even be in it, but McQueen could not bring
himself to admit that, nor could he quite believe that
Ernie Yost, crooked as he was, would be the ringleader in
any such scheme. Yost might run off forty or fifty head
and sell them over the border, but dangerous as he might
be at times, he was not a man who planned big.
Sartain had suggested that Colker did not always go
to town when he left the roundup. If not to Sotol, where
did he go? To a hideout in the hills? Or was he, himself,
drifting unbranded stock away from the main herd?
Ward McQueen mounted the roan and headed
back for the branding corral. Baldy rode up to him as
he approached.
?The boys workin' back in the hills say the stock is
mostly down out of the brush,?he commented. ?Also,
Bud seen Old Man Gerber back there in the woods.?
48
?Gerber? Out here??Ward scowled. ?What was he
doing? Did Bud talk to him??
?No, he didn't. Bud found a few more Slash Seven
cows for us and was starting them back. They showed
no liking for open country, so he had his work cut out
for him.?
?How long ago??
?Right after the fight. He must be still back there because
we heard a shot 'way back in the canyon, maybe a
half hour ago.?
?A shot? What would he be shootin' at??
Baldy Jackson shrugged. ?Want me to ride back an'
see? Maybe the old feller is skinnin' you, Ward.?
?No, he's honest enough. I think I'll ride back there,
though. You come along.?
?Kim was tellin' about your run-in with Yost, an'
then with Black. You reckon they are in on this steal??
Ward shrugged. ?Could be. Lopez and Gallatin
weren't in it alone.?
The grass was parched and brown in the valley, and
they were leaving the scattered growth of oak, Spanish
dagger, and mesquite for higher ground and the cedar.
The air felt thick and heavy. Across the shoulder of the
mountain they pushed down into the thick brush, and
here they ran into Jensen with four head of Slash 7's, two
YT's,anda21.
?You see Gerber here??Ward demanded.
?No, I sure haven't. Heard a shot a while back, then
two more. I had these critters, though, an' couldn't chase
over to investigate. Somebody shootin' at a wolf, maybe,
or a panther.?
?Start those cattle over the ridge and then come with
us. We may need an outside witness.?
IV
Ward McQueen's gray eyes swept the tangle before him.
It would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack to
47
 BEYOND THE GREAT SNOW MOUNTAINS / 49
search for anything down there. Still, if Gerber was out
here, he was here for a reason.
The sun was blazing hot, and in the chaparral the
heat was oppressive. It felt even more like a storm than
before. If it rained, it would at least make travel better,
and Ward's plan was to start the herd within fortyeight
hours if possible. It wouldn't give the men much
rest, but he wanted to be driving north to where the grass
was better.
Along the trail north they could take their time. He
wanted the cattle to feed all the way to Kansas, anyway.
Sweat trickled down his face, cutting a furrow
through the dust. It was hot. He wiped his palms dry on
his pant legs and let the roan find its way through the
brush that now was higher than his head.
?More to the left, I reckon,?Jensen said. ?You can't
always swear to the direction.?
?I smell smoke,?Baldy said. ?Hold up! I smell
smoke close to hand.?
?Who would want a fire on a day like this??Jensen
asked, of nobody in particular. ?This place is like an
oven.?
?Wait a minute!?Ward lifted a hand. ?There's
something over here.?He turned his horse and pushed
through the shin oak, then drew up sharply, and the roan
snorted and backed up. ?Dead man,?he said.
He trailed the bridle reins and dropped to the
ground. He needed to go only a step nearer to recognize
Dick Gerber. The white-haired old man was lying on his
back, one arm thrown across his eyes to shield them
from the sun.
Jensen dropped from his horse and bent over the old
man. He placed a hand on his heart.
?Dead, all right. That's too bad, he was a pretty
good old boy, at that.?
?What was he doin' with a fire??Baldy demanded.
?Hey, there's a runnin' iron!?
Ward scowled. ?Gerber? With a runnin' iron? What
would he be brandin'??He stared at the man, and then
48
Rp
M at the fire. ?Hunt up his horse, Baldy, while Jensen an' I
11 have a look around.?
ili ?He always carried a runnin' iron, Mr. McQueen,?
* Jensen said. ?The old man claimed it saved a sight of
k time to brand stock where he found it. Never went out
but what he carried it.?
Ward looked around thoughtfully. Obviously, Gerber
had used the iron. He bent over it and touched it. It was
lying in the shade and it was still warm.
Gerber had been shot twice through the chest, never
able to get his gun out. It was a plain case of murder.
?He had a critter down, Mr. McQueen,?Jensen
' said. ?Here's the tracks. He throwed it, an' from the look
hog-tied it.?
?Yeah.?Ward squatted on his heels. ?Here's a
piggin' string. But what would he want to brand back in
here on a day like this??
?It wasn't dishonest,?Jensen said stubbornly. ?I
knew the old man well, as I guess you did. He was on
the level.?
1 ?Sure! But what was he doin' here? An' who shot
d him??
If Jensen scratched his jaw. ?You know what they'll
Šsay. They'll say you done it. They'll say after that trouble
Šin town that you had more trouble and that you killed
him in an argument over cattle.?
McQueen stared at the old man's body. So far as he
could see, nothing had been touched. He got up,
; studying the angle of the shots, but apparently the old
I man had not died at once, but had moved around some,
I and it was hard to figure. Yet, when he looked again,
I there did seem to be one possibility.
I On the brow of a hill, not over fifty yards away, was
I a cluster of boulders. It was worth looking at.
I ?Baldy, go back to the ranch and get a buckboard,?
Šhe said. ?Come as far as you can, an' we'll pack the body
K out to it.?
T ?You ought to be havin' a look around, Mr. me|
Queen,?Jensen said seriously. ?This here was murder, an'
you better find who done it. Folks sure liked this old man.?
49
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 51
Who had the opportunity? Jensen, of course. Bud
Fox, too. Both of them had been working the brush, and
there were probably two or three other hands who had
been in the vicinity. But it wouldn't make sense for
any of them to kill him. It had to be someone else, and
somehow it was sure to tie in with the sleepering of Slash
7 cattle.
Ward turned and fought his way through the brush
to the nest of boulders on the hill. From atop a boulder,
he studied the earth behind them. From here he could see
Jensen standing over Gerber's body, and the unknown
murderer could have done the same. Behind the rocks
were boot tracks, a number of them. He could find no
cartridge anywhere around.
Jensen was waiting for him. ?Find anything??
?Tracks. That's all. Probably whoever shot him did
it from there, but that doesn't tell us anything.?
Jensen scratched his unshaven jaw. ?It does tell you
a little, Mr. McQueen. It tells you the chances are that
whoever killed him was following him. Nobody gets in
this here brush by accident, an' nobody's goin' to convince
me that two men are in the brush by accident an'
one seen the other down here, then killed him.?
?It could be that way, though.?Ward pushed his hat
back, then removed it and mopped the sweat band. ?The
thing is, the killer had a reason, an' that's where we've
got to think this out. The killer must have seen Gerber
down here with that critter thrown, an' he didn't want
him to do what he was doin'.?
?Well, anybody could say he was rustlin',?Jensen
suggested. ?I'll never believe it of the old man, but it sure
does look funny, him down here with a runnin' iron an' a
critter throwed in this heat.?
?Or maybe there was something else. Maybe he was
inspectin' a brand somebody didn't want him to look at
too close. Could that be it??
Jensen agreed dubiously. ?Could be. But what
brand??
Baldy Jackson came up leading a horse. ?Got the buckboard.
There's a passel of folks at the ranch. Sheriff, too.?
50
at the fire. ?Hunt up his horse, Baldy, while Jensen an' I
have a look around.?
?He always carried a runnin' iron, Mr. McQueen,?
Jensen said. ?The old man claimed it saved a sight of
time to brand stock where he found it. Never went out
but what he carried it.?
Ward looked around thoughtfully. Obviously, Gerber
had used the iron. He bent over it and touched it. It was
lying in the shade and it was still warm.
Gerber had been shot twice through the chest, never
able to get his gun out. It was a plain case of murder.
?He had a critter down, Mr. McQueen,?Jensen
said. ?Here's the tracks. He throwed it, an' from the look
hog-tied it.?
?Yeah.?Ward squatted on his heels. ?Here's a
piggin' string. But what would he want to brand back in
here on a day like this??
?It wasn't dishonest,?Jensen said stubbornly. ?I
knew the old man well, as I guess you did. He was on
the level.?
?Sure! But what was he doin' here? An' who shot
him??
Jensen scratched his jaw. ?You know what they'll
say. They'll say you done it. They'll say after that trouble
in town that you had more trouble and that you killed
him in an argument over cattle.?
McQueen stared at the old man's body. So far as he
could see, nothing had been touched. He got up,
studying the angle of the shots, but apparently the old
man had not died at once, but had moved around some,
and it was hard to figure. Yet, when he looked again,
there did seem to be one possibility.
On the brow of a hill, not over fifty yards away, was
a cluster of boulders. It was worth looking at.
?Baldy, go back to the ranch and get a buckboard,?
he said. ?Come as far as you can, an' we'll pack the body
out to it.?
?You ought to be havin' a look around, Mr. meQueen,?
Jensen said seriously. ?This here was murder, an'
you better find who done it. Folks sure liked this old man.?
51
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 51
Who had the opportunity? Jensen, of course. Bud
Fox, too. Both of them had been working the brush, and
there were probably two or three other hands who had
been in the vicinity. But it wouldn't make sense for
any of them to kill him. It had to be someone else, and
somehow it was sure to tie in with the sleepering of Slash
7 cattle.
Ward turned and fought his way through the brush
to the nest of boulders on the hill. From atop a boulder,
he studied the earth behind them. From here he could see
Jensen standing over Gerber's body, and the unknown
murderer could have done the same. Behind the rocks
were boot tracks, a number of them. He could find no
cartridge anywhere around.
Jensen was waiting for him. ?Find anything??
?Tracks. That's all. Probably whoever shot him did
it from there, but that doesn't tell us anything.?
Jensen scratched his unshaven jaw. ?It does tell you
a little, Mr. McQueen. It tells you the chances are that
whoever killed him was following him. Nobody gets in
this here brush by accident, an' nobody's goin' to convince
me that two men are in the brush by accident an'
one seen the other down here, then killed him.?
?It could be that way, though.?Ward pushed his hat
back, then removed it and mopped the sweat band. ?The
thing is, the killer had a reason, an' that's where we've
got to think this out. The killer must have seen Gerber
down here with that critter thrown, an' he didn't want
him to do what he was doin'.?
?Well, anybody could say he was rustlin',?Jensen
suggested. ?I'll never believe it of the old man, but it sure
does look funny, him down here with a runnin' iron an' a
critter throwed in this heat.?
?Or maybe there was something else. Maybe he was
inspectin' a brand somebody didn't want him to look at
too close. Could that be it??
Jensen agreed dubiously. ?Could be. But what
brand??
Baldy Jackson came up leading a horse. ?Got the buckboard.
There's a passel of folks at the ranch. Sheriff, too.?
52
?The sheriff? Already??Ward shrugged. ?The law
always gets there fast when you don't want him. All
right, we'll have a talk.?
Ward McQueen rode back to the ranch followed by
Baldy with the buckboard, and Gerber's horse and the
horse that packed him out of the brush trailing behind.
Jensen brought up the rear, his face doubtful.
Buff Colker was there, and not far from him was
Ruth Kermitt. Ward glanced quickly at her, but her eyes
were averted and he could not catch her glance.
Other men walked up from the corrals and he
saw Ernie Yost, Villani, and Black. Taylor was nowhere
in evidence. Apparently, he, like Lopez, had decided he
had enough.
Kim Sartain loafed nearby, leaning against an old
Conestoga wagon. He nodded toward the tall man with
the drooping mustache.
?Sheriff Jeff Davis, this is Ward McQueen.?
?Howdy.?Ward swung around. ?What's the
trouble, Sheriff??
?I hear there's been some shootin' around here. Who
killed Dick Gerber??
?That's something I'd like to know,?McQueen told
him. ?We heard the shots, or some of the boys did, and
later went to look around. We found Gerber, already
dead.?
Davis stocked his pipe. ?You had trouble with him
in town??
?Nothing serious. We were friends, only somebody
told him I said he lied about the number of cattle we had
here and he went off half-cocked. I bought four thousand
head, but when we finished our gather the tally
showed only a few over three thousand.?
?Then what happened??Davis eyed him thoughtfully.
Ward met his eyes and shrugged.
?We had our words in town, then sat down together
and straightened things out. I didn't see Dick again until
we found him in the brush, dead.?
?He had a brandin' iron alongside of him, an' a fire
53
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 53
goin'. He'd branded something.?Baldy made his offering
and then shut up.
Davis glanced at him, one bleak, all-seeing glance.
?The killer could have planted that. You could have
planted it, McQueen.?
?I could have, but I didn't. Dick Gerber never misbranded
a cow in his entire life, and I'd bet on it. He
drove a hard bargain often enough, but he was honest as
they come.?
?You ask us to believe,?Colker interrupted, ?that
you parted from Gerber last night on a friendly basis
when you had a thousand head missing from the tally?
That sounds pretty broad-minded to me.?
For a moment Ward looked around at him. ?What's
his part in this, Sheriff? As you can tell by the expression
I pounded into his face, I don't like him!?
?I'm a witness.?Colker smiled grimly. ?I'll have my
say, too.?
?Want me to start him travelin', boss??Sartain
asked. ?I'd like that.?
?I'm in charge here.?Davis looked around at Kim.
?I'll start who movin' when I want.?
Kim Sartain straightened away from the wheel. ?Ward
McQueen is my boss, and I'll take his orders.?
?Are you takin' that, Davis??Yost thrust forward.
?There have been two killin's committed on this place
today. Gallatin was shot down by McQueen, and then
Gerber was bumped off. That Sartain is a killer; McQueen
as much as admitted it the other day.?
?Was Gallatin killed??Davis inquired gently. Ward
found himself liking the man. Obviously, Sheriff Jeff
Davis was no fool, and he was a man who knew his
own mind.
?Yes, there was a gunfight. I accused Lopez of handling
cattle at night. Gallatin interfered, and when I
called him on it, he went for a gun. I tried to stop him,
but couldn't, so I drew.?
?I seen it, Jeff,?Jensen said flatly. ?Gaily asked for
it. He was rustlin' cows.?
54
?What about that thousand head??Davis asked.
?Found hide or hair of them??
?I reckon we did,?Ward said, and his eyes swung to
Buff Colker. ?I think we've found 'em all!?
By the light that leaped suddenly in Colker's eyes,
McQueen knew he had guessed right. Buff Colker was
the brains of the rustling on the Slash 7. ^
?They were sleeperin' 'em, Sheriff. Drivf^ unbranded
stock around the pens at night an' mixing them
in with the mixed brands we were going to release. Lopez
was in on it, an' so was Gallatin. I think that Gerber
smelled a rat, an' when the killer trailed him an' saw
what he was doin', he killed him.?
?Sheriff.?Ruth Kermitt spoke gently. ?Have you
had trouble with rustlers around here before??
?Sure. Matter of fact, that was the reason Gerber
was sellin' his stock. Too much rustlin'.?
?And Gerber's brand is a Slash Seven,?Ruth continued.
?Can you think of a brand that a Slash Seven
could be made into, Sheriff??
?Ma'am, we've been over that here for months,?
Davis said. ?There ain't a brand in this part of the
country like that. Not one it could be done with, not anywhere
easy.?
?There's one brand,?she insisted gently. ?I refer to
the brand that Buff Colker has registered.?
Ward happened to have his eyes on Colker, and he
saw the man start as if struck with a whip. His head
jerked around, and hatred blazed in his eyes, hatred and
fear. But then the fear was gone.
?Colker ain't got no brand!?Davis said, frowning.
?Nor no cattle I know of.?
?He has, though, Sheriff.?Ruth glanced at Ward,
then away. ?I checked with Austin. He has a Box Triangle
registered there. Any child could make a Slash
Seven into a Box Triangle.
?Mr. Colker spent the whole evening telling me how
he didn't have to be a cowhand, that he had a ranch of
his own, well stocked with cattle, and that he intended to
55
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 55
branch out. When Ward told me of the cattle we were
missing, I became curious, and I checked with Austin as
to Buff Colker's brand.?
?Are you accusin' me of being a rustler??Colker
turned on her, his dark eyes ugly. Then he looked back
at the sheriff. ?You can see for yourself, Sheriff. This is
a cheap plot. They are conniving to hang this on me.
McQueen is a known gunman, so is Sartain, and they
both work for Miss Kermitt.?
Davis chewed his mustache. ?Do you have a
brand??
Colker's eyes shifted. ?Yes,?he said finally.
?Is it a Box Triangle??
?Well, yes, but that doesn't mean that I'm a rustler.?
Davis dropped to his haunches and with a stick,
drew a Slash 7 in the sand, and then opposite it, a Box
Triangle.
He glanced up at Colker. ?You've got to admit it's
awful easily done.?He straightened to his feet. ?Now,
folks, I ain't much on a man havin' an alibi. Them as
needs 'em can get 'em, an' them as don't need 'em never
has 'em.
?If McQueen has found the Tumblin' K cows, like
he says, I don't see no reason for any shootin' on his part.
Far's I know, the two of them are friends. There has been
some rustlin' here, I can see that. I reckon afore we can
do much else we'll have to send a deputy to your ranch
an' have a few head of your cows killed so we can check
the brands. If we can find any Slash Sevens made over, I
reckon we'll have Gerber's rustler, an' maybe a powerful
suspect for his murder. Until then we'll hold you.?
?That don't figure, Jeff,?Yost protested. ?Just because
this girl figured it that way is no sign that
Gerberdid.?
?He knew.?Ruth spoke positively. ?I was very careless
last night. I was drawing Slash Sevens into Box Triangles
at the table, and forgot and left my paper there.
When I returned for it, the cook told me that Dick
Gerber had picked it up, swore, and went out.?
56
Buff Colker was sweating now, and his face was
pale. ?That doesn't prove a thing!?he declared. ?I demand
to be allowed to leave. All you have is a lot of suspicion.
I can find fifty brands in Texas that could be made
from Slash Sevens.?
Ernie Yost had fallen back close to Colker, and Villani
had moved toward his horse. A slight movement by
Black drew Ward's attention, and he saw that the big
gunman was sidling toward his horse and his rifle. And
then he saw something else.
Bud Fox had his rope on a steer and he was half
leading, half dragging him toward the house. Behind
him, Perkins was using his rope as a whip to urge the
stubborn steer along.
Ward McQueen shifted his position so he could keep
Yost and Colker completely covered if necessary. Out of
the corner of his eye he noticed that Kim Sartain and
Baldy Jackson were both alert to the shifting of forces.
Only the sheriff and Jensen seemed unaware of what
was happening.
?Ruth, you'd better get inside,?Ward said quietly.
?There's going to be trouble.?He spoke softly, but he
noticed the sheriff's sudden movement and knew he
had heard.
Ward shifted his eyes from Buff toward the steer, and
for a moment he stared at the weird brand without cornprehension,
and then it hit him.
?Davis!?he said sharply. ?There's your proof
of murder!?
Burned with a running iron on the steer's hide was
the date, and under it:
SHOT BY BUF CLKR RUSTLER, DYIN
Ij TO BX TRI
HOT AS HELL
D. GRBR.
?There it is! Burned with a runnin' iron as the old
man lay dyin' in the brush! Then he cut loose the steer-
57
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 57
had him thrown and ready to check his brand when Buff
came up on him!?
Buff Colker stepped back quickly and clawed for his
gun, but Ward was faster. Even as Colker's gun started to
lift, Ward's first bullet ripped the thumb from his hand
and knocked him off balance.
Colker stared at the stub where his thumb had been,
now gushing with blood, and with a cry like an animal,
rushed for his horse. Ward had swung his gun toward
Yost even as a bullet knocked him into the side of the
house. He fired, holding his gun low. Sartain had opened
up on Black, and the wiry young gunfighter was walking
in on him, firing with every step. Villani was out of it.
Baldy had fired his rifle right across the saddle bows, and
Villani toppled over, clawed at the side of the water
trough, and got himself half erect, getting his gun out
even as he cursed. Baldy fired again, and the gun slid
from Villani's fingers.
Yost screamed as Ward's bullet hit him, and then
suddenly, his eyes wild, he ran straight for McQueen,
his gun blazing. Ward stepped back and tripped on
the stoop. Catching himself on one hand, he looked up
into the wild, fear-crazed eyes of Yost as the man threw
down on him with a six-shooter at point-blank range!
McQueen shot fast, three times, as swiftly as he could
thumb the gun.
Ernie Yost went up on his toes, his face twisting in a
frightful grimace; then he pitched over on his face, his
gun blasting the hard-packed earth within inches of
Ward's hand.
McQueen kicked the dying man off his legs and got
to his feet, feeding shells into his gun, but the battle was
over. In a few seconds four men had died.
Sheriff Davis had fired but one shot, killing Buff
Colker as he scrambled to get away.
Ward McQueen holstered his gun and grabbed for
support at the well coping. He knew he had been shot;
his side felt strangely numb and his mind seemed sluggish,
but his eyes were alive and knowing.
58
Jensen was down, but struggling to get up, with a
red stain on his pant leg. Sheriff Davis, in the most exposed
position of all, was unharmed.
Ruth rushed to Ward's side. ?Darling! You're hurt!?
He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to grin.
?Not much,?he said. ?How's Kim??
?Never touched me!?Sartain said. ?They plowed a
furrow over Baldy's ear. Cut off a piece of the last fringe
of hair he's got left!?
Neither Fox nor Perkins had managed to get off a
shot. Both men came crowding up now, and they helped
Ward inside. On examination they found he had only a
flesh wound in the side, and while there had been some
loss of blood, he was not badly hurt.
Ward looked at Ruth. ?I reckon when I get on
my feet, we'd better haul out of here. This place looks
like trouble.?
She laughed, then blushed. ?I'm in a hurry to get
back, too, Ward. Or shall we wait??
?No,?he smiled, ?I've heard that Cheyenne is a
good town for weddings!?
59
 SIDESHOW CHAMPION
When Mark Lanning looked at me and asked if I
would take the Ludlow fight, I knew what he
was thinking, and just what he had in mind. He
also knew that there was only one answer I could give.
?Sure, I'll take it,?I said. ?I'll fight Van Ludlow any
place, for money, marbles, or chalk.?
But it was going to be for money. Lanning knew
that, for that's what the game is about. Also, it had to be
money because I was right behind the eight ball for lack
of it.
Telling the truth: if I hadn't needed the cash as bad as
I did, I would never have taken the fight. Not me, Danny
McClure.
I'd been ducking Ludlow for two years. Not because
I didn't want a shot at the title, but because of Lanning
and some of the crowd behind him.
Mark Lanning had moved in on the fight game in
Zenith by way of the slot machine racket. He was a
short, fat man who wore a gold-plated coin on his watch
chain. That coin fascinated me. It was so much like the
guy himself, all front and polish, and underneath about
as cheap as they come.
However, Mark Lanning was the promoter in Zenith.
J
60
And Duck Miller, who was manager for Van Ludlow,
was merely an errand boy for Mark. About the only
thing Lanning didn't control in the fight game by that
time was me. I was the uncrowned middleweight champ
and everybody said I was the best boy in the division.
Without taking any bows, I can say yes to that one.
The champ, Gordie Carrasco, was strictly from
cheese. He won the title on a foul, skipped a couple of
tough ones, and beat three boys on decisions. Not that he
couldn't go. Nobody ever gets within shouting distance
of any kind of title unless he's good. But Gordie wasn't as
good as Ludlow by a long ways. He wasn't as good as
Tommy Spalla, either. And he wasn't as good as me.
Ludlow was a different kinda deal. I give the guy
that. He had everything and maybe a little more. Now no
real boxer ever believes anybody is really better than he
is. Naturally, I considered myself to be the better fighter.
But he was good, just plenty good, and anybody who
beat him would have to go the distance and give it all he
had. Van Ludlow was fast. He was smart, and he could
punch. Added to it, he was one of the dirtiest fighters in
the business.
That wasn't so bad. A lot of good fighters have been
rough. It isn't always malicious. It's just they want to
win. It's just the high degree of competitive instinct, and
because among top grade fighting men the fight's the
thing, and a rule here or there doesn't matter so much.
Jack Dempsey never failed to use every advantage in the
book, so did Harry Greb, and for my money they were
two of the best who ever lived.
If it had just been Ludlow, I'd have fought him long
ago. It was Lanning I was ducking. Odd as it may seem,
I'm an honest guy. Now I've carried a losing fighter or
two when it really didn't matter much, but I never
gypped a bettor, and my fights weren't for sale. Nor did I
ever buy any myself. I won them in the ring and liked it
that way.
The crowd around Lanning was getting a stranglehold
on the fight game. I didn't like to see that bunch of
crooks, gunmen, and chiselers edging in everywhere. I
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 61
had ducked the fights with Ludlow because I knew that
when I went in there with him, I was the last chance
honest fighting had in Zenith or anywhere nearby. I was
going to be fighting every dirty trick Lanning and his
crowd could figure out. The referee and the judges would
be against me. The timekeeper would be for Ludlow. If
there was any way Lanning could get me into the ring
without a chance, he'd try it.
Yet, I was taking the fight.
The reason was simple enough. My ranch, the only
thing in the world I cared about, was mortgaged to the
hilt. I'd blown my savings on that ranch, then put a
mortgage on it to stock it and build a house and some
barns. If it hadn't been for Korea, it would have been
paid off. But I was in the army, and Mark Lanning located
that note and bought it.
The mortgage was due, and I didn't have even part
of a payment. Without that ranch, I was through. My
days in the ring weren't numbered, but from where I
stood I could see the numbers. I'd been fighting fourteen
years, and Lanning had the game sewed up around there,
so nobody fought unless they would do business. I cared
more about that ranch than I did the title, so I could take
a pass on Gordie Carrasco. But Van Ludlow couldn't.
Lanning had him aimed at Gordie but he wouldn't look
so good wearing the belt if the man all the sportswriters
called ?the uncrowned champ?wasn't taken down, too.
Lanning now had it all lined up. I had to fight or give up
on my future.
And then, there was Marge Hamlin.
Marge was my girl. We met right after I mustered
out, when I first returned to Zenith. She was singing at
the Rococo, and a honey if there ever was one. We
started going together, became engaged, and were going
to marry in the summer.
I had to take the fight. That was more the truth of it.
I went over to Lanning's. Duck Miller was there.
We talked.
?Then,?Lanning said, smiling his greasy smile,
?there's the matter of an appearance forfeit.?
62
?What d'ycm mean??I asked. ?Ever know of me
running out on a fight??
He moved one pudgy hand over to the ashtray and
knocked off the gray ashes from his expensive cigar. ?It
ain't that, Danny,?he said smoothly, ?it's just business.
Van's already got his up to five thousand dollars.?
?Five thousand??I couldn't believe what I heard.
?Where would I get five thousand dollars? If I had five
thousand you would never get me within a city block of
any of your fights.?
?That's what it has to be,?he replied, and his eyes
got small and ugly. He liked putting the squeeze on.
?You can put up your car an' your stock from the
ranch.?
For a minute I stared at him. He knew what that
meant as well as I did. It would mean that come snakes
or high water, I would have to be in that ring to fight
Ludlow. If I wasn't, I'd be flat broke, not a thing in the
world but the clothes on my back.
Not that I'd duck a fight. But there are such things as
cut eyes and sickness.
?Okay,?I said, ?I'll put 'em up. But I'm warnin'
you. Better rig this one good. Because I'm going to get
you!?
I wasn't the bragging kind, and I saw Duck Miller
looked a little worried. Duck was smart enough, just
weak. He liked the easy dough, and the easy money in
Zenith all came through Mark Lanning. Lanning was
shrewd and confident. He had been winning a long time.
Duck Miller had never won, so Miller could worry.
The thing was, Miller knew me. There had been a
time when Duck and I had been broke together. We ran
into some trouble out West when a tough mob tried to
arrange one of my fights to make a cleanup. I refused to
go along, and they said it was take the money or else.
Me, I'm a funny guy. I don't like getting pushed
around, and I don't like threats. In that one, everybody
had figured the fight would go the distance. This guy
was plenty tough. Everybody figured me for the nod, but
nobody figured he would stop me or I'd stop him. The
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wise boys had it figured for me to go in the tank in the
sixth round.
I came to that fight all rodded up. They figure a
fighter does it with his hands or no way. But these hornbres
forgot I'm a western man myself, and didn't figure
on me packing some iron.
Coming out of the Arizona Strip, the way I do, I
grew up with a gun. So I came down to that fight, and
| when this Rock Spenter walked out of his corner I
| feinted a left and Rock threw a right. My right fist caught
him coming in, and my left hook caught him falling. And
at the ten count, he hadn't even wiggled a toe.
I went down the aisle to the dressing room on the run,
and when the door busted open, I was sitting on the
rubbing table with a six-shooter in my mitt. Those three
would-be hard guys turned greener than a new field of alfalfa,
and then I tied two of them up, put the gun down,
and went to work on the boss.
When I got through with him, I turned the others
loose one at a time. Two of them were hospital cases. By
that time the sheriff was busting down the door.
That old man had been betting on me, and when I
explained, he saw the light very quickly. The sure-thing
boys got stuck for packing concealed weapons, and one
of them turned out to be wanted for armed robbery and
wound up with ten years.
I'm not really bragging. I'm not proud of some of the
circles I've traveled in or some of the things I've done.
But I just wanted you to know what Duck Miller knew.
And Duck may have been a loser, but he never lost anything
but money. So far, he was still a stand-up guy.
When I had closed the door I heard Duck speak.
?You shouldn't have done it, Mark,?he said. ?He won't
take a pushing around.?
?Him??Contempt was thick in Lanning's voice.
?He'll take it, and he'll like it!?
Would I? I walked out of there and I was sore. But
that day, for the first time in months, I was in the gym.
The trouble was, I'd been in the service, spent my
time staring through a barbed-wire fence in a part of
64
Korea that was like Nevada with the heat turned off, and
during that time I'd done no boxing. Actually, it was
over three years since I'd had a legitimate scrap.
Van Ludlow had a busted eardrum or something
and he had been righting all the time. It takes fights to
sharpen a man up, and they knew that. Don't think they
didn't. They wanted me in the tank or out of the picture,
but bad. Not that Van cared. Ludlow, like I said, was a
fighter. He didn't care where his opponent came from or
what he looked like.
Marge was waiting for me, sitting in her car in front
of the Primrose Cafe. We locked the car and went inside
and when we were sitting in the booth, she smiled at me.
Marge was a blonde, and a pretty one. She was shaped
to please and had a pair of eyes you could lose yourself
in. Except for one small thing, she was perfect. There
was just a tiny bit of hardness around her mouth. It vanished
when she smiled, and that was often.
?How was it??she asked me.
?Rough,?I said. ?I'm fighting Van in ninety days.
Also,?I added, ?he made me post an appearance forfeit.
I had to put it up, and it meant mortgaging my car and
my stock on the ranch.?
?He's got you, hasn't he??Marge asked.
I smiled then. It's always easy to fight when you're
backed in a corner and there's only one way out.
?No,?I said, ?he hasn't got me. The trouble with
these smart guys, they get too sure of themselves. Duck
Miller is a smarter guy than Lanning.?
?Duck??Marge was amazed. ?Why, he's just a
stooge!?
?Yeah, I know. But I'll lay you five to one he's got a
little dough in the bank, and well, he'll never wind up in
stir. Lanning will.?
?Why do you say that??Marge asked quickly.
?Have you got something on him??
?Uh-uh. But I've seen his kind before.?
Like I say, I went to the gym that day. The next, too.
I did about eight rounds of light work each of those two
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 65
days. When I wanted to box, on the third day, there
wasn't anybody to work with. There were a dozen guys
of the right size around, but they were through working,
didn't want to box that day, or weren't feeling good. It
was a runaround.
If I'd had money, I could have imported some boys
and worked at the ranch, but I didn't. However, there
were a couple of big boys out there who had fooled with
the mitts some, and I began to work with them. Several
times Duck Miller dropped by, and I knew he was
keeping an eye on me for Lanning. This work wasn't
doing me any good. I knew it, and he knew it.
Marge drove out on the tenth day in a new canarycolored
coupe. One of those sleek convertible jobs. She
had never looked more lovely. She watched me work,
and when I went over to lean on the door, she looked
at me.
?This won't get it, Danny,?she said. ?These hicks
aren't good enough for you.?
?I know,?I said honestly, ?but I got a plan.?
?What is it??she asked curiously.
?Maybe a secret,?I told her.
?From me??she pouted. ?I like to know everything
about you, Danny.?
She did all right. Maybe it was that hardness around
her mouth. Or put it down that I'm a cautious guy. I
brushed it off, and although she came back to the subject
twice, I slipped every question like they were lefthand
leads. And that night, I had Joe, my hand from the
ranch, drive me down to Cartersville, and there I caught
a freight.
The Greater American Shows were playing county
fairs through the Rocky Mountain and prairie states. I
caught up with them three days after leaving the ranch.
Old Man Farley was standing in front of the cook tent
when I walked up. He took one look and let out a yelp.
?No names, Pop,?I warned. ?I'm Bill Banner, a ham
an' egg pug, looking for work. I want a job in your athletic
show, taking on all comers.?
66
?Are you crazy??he demanded, low voiced. ?Danny
McClure, you're the greatest middleweight since Ketchell,
an' you want to work with a carnival sideshow? ?
Briefly, I explained the pitch. ?Well,?he said, ?you
won't find much competition, but like you say, you'll be
fightin' every night, tryin' all the time. Buck s on the
show, too. He'd like to work with you.?
Almost fifteen years before, a husky kid, just off a
cow ranch in the Strip, I'd joined the Greater American
in Las Vegas. Buck Farley, the old man's kid, soon became
my best pal.
An ex-prizefighter on the show taught us to box, and
in a few weeks they started me taking on all comers. I
stayed with the show two years and nine months, and in
that time must have been in the ring with eight or nine
hundred men.
Two, three, sometimes four a night wanted to try to
pick up twenty-five bucks by staying four rounds. When
I got better, the show raised it to a hundred. Once in a
while we let them stay, but that was rare, and only when
the crowd was hot and we could pack them in for the rest
of the week by doing it.
When I moved on, I went pro and had gone to the
top. After three years, I was ranking with the first ten. A
couple of years later I was called the uncrowned champ.
?Hi, Bill!?Buck Farley had been tipped off before he
saw me. ?How's it going??
Buck was big. I could get down to one sixty, but
Buck would be lucky to make one ninety, and he was
rawboned and tough. Buck Farley had always been a
hand with the gloves, so I knew I had one good, tough
sparring partner.
That night was my first sideshow fight in a long time.
Old Man Farley was out front for the ballyhoo and he
made it good. Then, I don't have any tin ears. My nose
has been broken, but was fixed up and it doesn't show
too much. A fighter would always pick me for a
scrapper, but the average guy rarely does, so there wasn't
any trouble getting someone to come up.
The first guy was a copper miner. A regular hard-
67
 I
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 67
rock boy who was about my age and weighed about two
hundred and twenty. The guy's name was Mantry.
When we got in the ring, the place was full.
?Maybe you better let me take it,?Buck suggested,
?you might bust a hand on this guy.?
?This is what I came for,?I said. ?I've got to take
them as they come.?
They sounded the bell and this gorilla came out with a
rush. He was rawboned and rugged as the shoulder of a
mountain. He swung a wicked left, and I slid inside and
clipped him with two good ones in the wind. I might as
well have slugged the side of a battleship.
He bulled on in, letting them go with both hands. I
caught one on the ear that shook me to my heels and the
crowd roared. Mantry piled on in, dug a left into my
body and slammed another right to the head. I couldn't
seem to get working and circled away from him. Then I
stabbed a left to his mouth three times and he stopped in
his tracks and looked surprised.
He dropped into a half crouch, this guy had boxed
some, and he bored in, bulling me into the ropes. He
clipped me there and my knees sagged and then I came
up, mad as a hornet with a busted nest. I stabbed a left to
his mouth that made those others seem like brushing him
with a feather duster and hooked a right to his ear that
jarred him for three generations. I walked in, slamming
them with both hands, and the crowd began to whoop
it up.
His knees wilted and he started to sag. This was too
good to end, so I grabbed him and shoved him into the
ropes, holding him up and fighting with an appearance
of hard punching until the bell rang.
Mantry looked surprised, but walked to his corner,
only a little shaky. He knew I'd held him up, and he was
wondering why. He figured me for a good guy who was
taking him along for the ride.
When we came out he took it easy, whether from
caution or because I'd gone easy on him, I couldn't tell. I
68
stabbed a left to his mouth that left him undecided about
that, then stepped in close. I wanted a workout, and had
to get this guy back in line.
?What's a matter, chump??I whispered. ?You yella??
He went hog wild and threw one from his heels that
missed my chin by the flicker of an eyelash. Then he
clipped me with a roundhouse right and I went back into
the ropes and rebounded with both hands going. He was
big and half smart and he bored in, slugging like crazy.
Mister, you should have heard the tent! You could
hear their yells for a half mile, and people began crowding
around the outside to see what was going on. Naturally,
that didn't hurt the old man's feelings.
Me, I like a fight, and so did this Mantry. We walked
out there and slugged it toe-to-toe. What I had on him in
experience and savvy, he had in weight, strength, and
height. Of course, I'd never let old Mary Ann down the
groove yet.
The crowd was screaming like a bunch of madmen. I
whipped a right uppercut to Mantry's chin and he slumped,
and then I drove a couple of stiff ones into his wind. The
bell rang again and I trotted back to my corner.
The third was a regular brannigan. I dropped about
half my science into the discard because this was the
most fun I'd had in months. We walked out there and
went into it and it would have taken a smarter guy than
any in that crowd to have seen that I was slipping and
riding most of Mantry's hardest punches. He teed off my
chin with a good one that sent up a shower of sparks,
and when the round ended, I caught him with two in
the wind.
Coming up for the fourth, I figured here is where I let
him have it. After all, Farley was paying one hundred
bucks if this guy went the distance. I sharpened up in this
one. I didn't want to cut the guy. He was a right sort, and
I liked him. So I walked out and busted him a couple in
the wind that brought a worried expression to his face.
Then I went under his left and whammed a right to the
heart that made him back up a couple of steps. He shot
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 69
two fast lefts to the head and one to the chin, then tried
a right.
I stepped around, feinted with a left, and he stepped
in and I let Mary Ann down the groove. Now you can
box or you can slug but there's none out there that can
do both at once. A fighter's style is usually one or the
other. Boxing will win you points and it'll keep you from
getting hit too much, but slugging puts them on the
canvas. The only problem is you have to stop boxing for
an instant and plant your feet to do it. It's in that instant
that you can get hit badly, if your opponent is on the ball.
Mantry took the feint, however, and that was the end
of him.
It clipped him right on the button and he stood there
for a split second and then dropped like he'd been shot
through the heart.
I walked back to my corner and Buck looked at
me. ?Man,?his eyes were wide, ?what did you hit
him with??
When the count was over, I went over and picked the
guy up.
?Lucky punch!?one of the townies was saying.
?The big guy had it made until he clipped him!?
When Mantry came around, I slapped him on the
shoulder. ?Nice fight, guy! Let's go back an' dress.
?Pop,?I said when we were dressing, ?slip the guy
ten bucks a round. He made a fight.?
Pop Farley knew a good thing when he saw it. ?Sure
enough.?He paid the big guy forty dollars, who looked
from me to Pop like we were Santa Claus on Christmas
Eve. ?Why don't you come back an' try it again??
Pop suggested.
?I might,?Mantry said, ?I might at that!?
That was the beginning. In the following sixty days,
I boxed from four to twelve rounds a night, fighting
miners, lumberjacks, cowpunchers, former Golden
Glove boys, Army fighters, anything that came along.
Mantry came back twice, and I cooled him twice more,
each one a brawl.
70
Those sixty days had put me in wonderful condition.
I was taking care of myself, not catching many, and tackling
the varied styles was sharpening me up. Above all,
every contest was a real fight, not practice. Even an easy
fight keeps a man on his toes, and a fighter of strength
can often be awkwardly dangerous if he knows a little.
And every one of these men was trying.
Buck knew all about my troubles. He was working
with me every day, and we had uncovered a good fast
welter on the show who had quit fighting because of a
bad hand. The light, fast work was good for me.
?It won't go this easy,?Buck told me. ?I heard about
Mark Lanning. He's dangerous. If he intends to clear the
way to the title, he'll not rest until he knows where you
are, and just what you're doin'.?
Later, I heard about it. I didn't know then. Buck
Farley had voiced my own thoughts, and in a different
way, they were the thoughts of Mark Lanning and
Duck Miller.
?Well,?Lanning had said, ?if he's taken a powder he's
through. Might be the best way at that, but I hate to think
of him gettin' away without a beatin', and I hate to think of
blowin' the money we'd win on the fight.?
?He ain't run out,?Duck said positively. ?I know
that guy. He's smart. He's got something up his sleeve.
What happened to him? ?
?We traced him to Cartersville,?Gasparo said. Gasparo
was Lanning's pet muscle man. ?He bought a ticket
there for Butte. Then he vanished into thin air.?
It was Marge Hamlin who tipped them off. I found
that out later, too. I hadn't written her, but she was no
dumb Dora, not that babe. She was in a dentist's office,
waiting to get a tooth filled, when she saw the paper. It
was a daily from a jerkwater town in Wyoming.
CARNIVAL FIGHTER TO MEET PAT DALY
Bill Banner, middleweight sharpie who has been a
sensation in the Greater American Shows these
past two months, has signed to meet Pat Daly, a
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 71
local light-heavyweight, in the ten-round main
event on Friday's card.
Banner, a welcome relief from the typical carnie
stumblebum, has been creating a lot of talk throughout
the Far West with his series of thrilling knockouts
over local fighters. Pop Farley, manager and
owner of Greater American, admits the opposition
has been inexperienced, but points to seventy-six
knockouts as some evidence. One of these was over
torn Bronson, former AAU champ, another over Ace
Donaldson, heavyweight champion of Montana.
She grabbed up that paper and legged it down to
Mark Lanning. ?Get a load of this,?she tells him. He
studies it and shrugs. ?You don't get it??she inquired,
lifting an eyebrow. ?Ask Duck. He knows that Danny
used to fight with a carnival.?
?Yeah,?Duck looked up, ?got his start that way.
Greater American Shows, it was.?
Lanning's eyes lit up triumphantly. ?You get a bonus
for that, Chick,?he tells Marge. Then he turned his
head. ?Gasparo, take three men. Get Tony Innes. I'll
contact him by phone. Then get a plane west. I want
Tony Innes to fight in this Daly's place.?
?Innes??Miller sat bolt upright. ?Man! He's the
second best light-heavy in the business!?
Lanning leered. ?Sure! An' he belongs to me. He'll
go out there, substitute for Daly. He'll give McClure a
pasting. One thing, I want him to cut Danny McClure's
eye! Win or lose, I want McClure's eye cut! Then when
he goes in there with Ludlow, we'll see what happens!?
Outside in the street, Duck Miller lit a cigarette and
looked at Marge Hamlin.
?So he's got you on the payroll, too,?he said.
?What a sweet four-flusher you turned out to be!?
Marge's face flushed and her lips thinned. ?What
about you}?she sneered.
Duck shrugged. ?I'm not takin' any bows, kid,?he
said grimly, ?but at least he knows which side I'm on. He's
a square guy. You like blood? Be there at the ringside
72
when he gets that eye opened. You'll see it. I hope it gets
on you so bad it'll never wash off!?
?He chose this game,?Marge said angrily. ?If he
doesn't know how it's played, that's his problem.?
?And you chose him.?Duck snapped his match
into the street. ?I guess the blood's there and won't wash
off already.?
All that I heard later. The Greater American was
playing over in Laramie, but Pop and Buck Farley were
with me, ready to go in there with Pat Daly. All three of
us were in the dressing room, waiting for the call, when
the door busted open.
Pat Daly was standing there in his street clothes. He
had blood all over and he could hardly stand.
?Who in blazes are you??he snarled. ?Y' yella bum!
Scared of me an' have your sluggers beat me up so's you
can put in a setup!?
Buck took him by the arm and jerked him inside.
?Give,?he said, ?what happened??
?What happened??Daly was swaying and punchdrunk,
but anger blazed in his eyes. ?Your sluggers
jumped me. Ran my car off the road, then before I was
on my feet, they started slugging me with blackjacks.
When I was out cold they rolled me into the ditch and
poured whiskey on me!?
?What about this substitute business??Pop demanded.
Suddenly, I knew what happened. Mark Lanning
had got me located. From here on in, it would be every
man for himself.
?You knew all about it!?Daly swore. ?When I got
in, Sam tells me he heard I was drunk and hurt in an accident,
and that they have a substitute. You tell me how
you knew that!?
The door opens then, and Sam Slake is standing
there. He looks at Daly, then he looks at me. His face
is hard.
?Daly can't fight,?he says, ?which is your fault.
Your handpicked substitute is out there, so you can go in
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with him. But I'm tellin' you, don't bring your crooked
game around here again. I'm callin' the D.A., so if you
want to play games you can play them with him.?
I got to my feet then, and I was sore. ?Listen!?I
snapped. ?I'll tell you what this is all about! Get the
newspaper boys in!?
It was time for the main go, and the crowd was
buzzing. They had had a look at Pat Daly, some of them,
and the arena was filled with crazy stories. The newspaper
boys, three of them, came down into my dressing room.
?All right,?I said, ?this is the story. My name isn't
Bill Banner. It's Danny McClure.?
?What??one of these reporters yelped. ?The uncrowned
middleweight champ? But you're signed to
meet Van Ludlow!?
?Right!?
Briefly, quickly as I could, I told them about how I
was pushed into the fight with Ludlow, all about the
methods Lanning used. How I couldn't get sparring partners,
and how I came west and joined the show I'd been
with as a kid. And how Lanning had sent his sluggers to
the show. That I didn't know who the substitute was, but
before the fight was over, they'd know it was no frame.
Some of it was guesswork, but they were good guesses.
?Maybe I'll know him. I'll bet money,?I told them,
?he's good. I'll bet plenty of dough he was sent out here
to see that I go into the ring with Ludlow hurt. I got to
go, or the commission in Zenith belongs to Lanning and
I lose my ranch.?
?Wow! What a story! The best middleweight in the
game fights his way into shape with a carnival!?The reporters
scrambled to beat me to the ring.
By that time the arena was wild. So I grabbed my
robe and got out of the dressing room with Buck Farley
and Pop alongside of me. I could see both of them were
packing heaters.
When I crawled through the ropes, I looked across
the ring and saw Tony Innes.
?Who is he? ?Buck asked.
74
I told him and his face went white. Tony Innes was
tough. A wicked puncher who had fought his way to the
top of the game with a string of knockouts.
The announcer walked into the center of the ring
and took the microphone, but I pushed him aside. Gasparo,
in Innes's corner, started up. Before he could get
over the edge of the ring, Buck Farley tugged him back.
The crowd was wild with excitement, but when I spoke,
they quieted down.
?Listen, folks! I can't explain now! It will all be in
the papers tomorrow, but some guys that want me out of
the fight racket had Pat Daly slugged and brought out a
tough boy to stick in here with me. So you're goin' to get
your money's worth tonight!
?In that corner, weight one hundred and seventy-five
pounds, is Tony Innes, second-ranking light-heavyweight
in the world! And my name isn't Bill Banner! It's Danny
McClure, and tonight you're going to see the topranking
light-heavyweight contender take a beating he'll
never forget.?
The crowd j ust blew the roof off the auditorium, and
Tony Innes came on his feet and waved a wildly angry glove
at the mike. ?Get it out of here!?he snarled. ?Let's fight!?
Somebody rang the bell, and Buck Farley just barely
got out of the way as Innes crossed the ring. He stabbed a
left that jerked my head back like it was on a hinge, and
he could have ended the fight there, but he was crazy
mad and threw his right too soon. It missed and I went in
close. Never in all my life was I so sore as then.
I ripped a right to his muscle-corded middle and then
smashed a left hook to the head that would have loosened
the rivets on the biggest battleship ever built, but it
never even staggered this guy. He clipped me on the chin
with an elbow that made my head ring like an alarm
clock. If that was the kind of fight it was going to be, I
was ready! We slugged it across the ring and then he
stepped out of the corner and caught me with a right that
made my knees buckle.
I moved into Tony, lancing his cut mouth with a
straight left. He sneered at me and bored in, rattling my
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 75
teeth with a wicked uppercut and clipping me with a
short left chop that made my knees bend. I slammed both
hands to the body and jerked my shoulder up under his
chin. When the bell for the first sounded, we were swapping
it out in the middle of the ring.
The minute skipped by and I was off my stool and
halfway across the ring before he moved. The guy had
weight and height on me and a beautiful left. It caught
me in the mouth and I tasted blood and then a right
smashed me on the chin and my brain went smoky and
I was on the canvas and this guy was standing over
me, never intending to let me get up. But I got up, and
brought one from the floor with me that caught him on
the temple and rolled him into the ropes.
I was on top of him but still a little foggy, and he
went inside of my right and clinched, stamping at my
arches. I shoved him away with my left, clipped him with
a right, and then we started to slug again.
You had to give it to Innes. He was a fighter. There
wasn't a man there that night who wouldn't agree. He
was dirty. He had sold out. He was a crook by seventeen
counts, but the guy could dish it out, and, brother, he
could take it.
And those people in that tank town? They were
seeing the battle of the century, and don't think they
didn't know it! The leading world contenders for two
titles with no holds barred. Yeah, they let it go on
that way. The sheriff was there, a red-hot sport and
fight fan.
?Let the voters get me!?I heard him say between
rounds. ?I'm a fightin' man, an' by the Lord Harry I
wouldn't miss this no matter what happens. Nobody interrupts
this fight but the fighters. Understand!?
If a guy was to judge by that crowd, the sheriff could
hold that office for the rest of his life. Me, I was too busy
to think about that then. Van Ludlow, Marge Hamlin,
Duck Miller, and Lanning were a thousand miles away.
In there with me was a great fighting man, and a killer.
Maybe Pd never fight Ludlow, but I was going to
get Innes.
76
Don't ask me what happened to the rounds. Don't ask
me how we fought. Don't ask me how many times I was
down, or how many he was down. We were two jungle
beasts fighting on the edge of a cliff, only besides brawn,
we had all the deadly skill, trained punching power, and
toughness of seasoned fighters. A thousand generations
had collected the skill in righting we used that night.
He cut my eye ... he cut both my eyes. But his were,
too, and his mouth was dribbling with blood and he was
wheezing through a broken nose. The crowd had gone
crazy, then hoarse, and now it sat staring in a kind of
shocked horror at what two men could do in a ring.
Referee? He got out of the way and stood beside the
sheriff. We broke, but rarely clean. We hit on the breaks,
we used thumbs, elbows, and heads, we swapped blows
until neither of us could throw another punch. The fight
had been scheduled for ten rounds. I think it was the
fourteenth when I began to get him.
I caught him coming in and sank my right into his
solar plexus. He was tired, I could feel it. He staggered
and his mouth fell open and I walked in throwing
punches to head and body. He staggered, went down,
rolled over.
Stand over him? Not on your life! I stepped back and
let the guy take his own time getting up! It wasn't because
I was fighting fair. I wanted him to see I didn't need
that kind of stuff. I could do it without that.
He got up and came in and got me with a right to the
wind, and I took it going away and then I slipped on
some blood and I hit the canvas and rolled over. Innes
backed off like I had done, and waved at me with a
bloody glove to get up and come on!
The crowd broke into a cheer then, the first he'd
had, and I could see he liked it.
I got up and we walked in and I touched his gloves.
That got them. Until then it had been a dirty, ugly fight.
But when I got up, I held out both gloves and with only a
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split second of hesitation, he touched my gloves' with his,
a boxer's handshake!
The crowd broke into another cheer. From then on
there wasn't a low blow or a heeled glove. We fought it
clean. Two big, confident fighting men who understood
each other.
But it couldn't last. No human could do what we
were doing and last. He came for me and I rolled my
head and let the glove go by and then smashed a right for
his body. He took it, and then I set myself. He was
weaving and I took aim at his body and let go.
The ropes caught him and he rolled along them. He
knew he was going to get it then, but he was asking no
favors, and he wasn't going to make it easy for me.
Again I feinted, and when he tried to laugh, a thin
trickle of blood started from a split lip. He wouldn't bite
on that.
?Quit it!?I heard him growl. ?Come an' get me!?
I went. Then I uncorked the payoff. I let Mary Ann
go down the groove!
The sound was like the butt end of an axe hitting a
frozen log, and Tony Innes stood like a dummy in a doze,
and then he went over on his feet, so cold an iceberg
would have felt like a heat wave. And then I started
backing up and fell into the ropes and stood there,
weaving a little, my hands working, so full of battle I
couldn't realize it was over.
The news report of the fight hit the sport pages
like an atomic bomb. Overnight everybody in the
country was talking about it and promoters from all
over the country were offering prices on a return
battle. Above all, it had started a fire I didn't think
Mark Lanning could put out. But he could still pull
plenty behind the smoke.
Most people will stand for a lot, but once a sore spot
gets in front of their eyes, they want to get rid of it. The
rotten setup at Zenith, which permeated the fight game,
78
was an example. The trouble was, it was a long time to
election and Lanning still had the situation sewed up in
Zenith, and most of the officials.
More than ever, he'd be out to get me. The season
was near closing for Greater American so Pop turned
the show over to his assistant and came east with
me. Buck came, too, and he brought that .45 Colt along
with him.
Maybe I had spoiled Lanning's game. Time would
tell about that, but on the eve of the Ludlow fight, I had
two poorly healed eyes, and the ring setup back home
was no better than it had been. Despite all the smoke, I
was still behind the eight ball.
The publicity would crab the chance of Lanning
pulling any really fast stuff. But with my eyes the way
they were, there was a good chance he wouldn't have to.
I was going into a fight with a cold, utterly merciless
competitor with two strikes against me. And with every
possible outside phase of the fight in question.
You think the timekeeper can do nothing? Suppose I
got a guy on the ropes, ready to cool him, or suppose I get
Ludlow on the deck and the referee says nine and there
are ten seconds or twenty seconds to go, and then the bell
rings early and Ludlow is saved?
Or suppose I'm taking a sweet socking and they let
the round go a few seconds. Many a fight has been lost or
won in a matter of seconds, and many a fighter has been
saved by the bell to come on to win in later rounds.
Duck Miller was lounging on the station platform
when I got off of the train. He glanced at my eyes and
there was no grin on his lips.
?Well, Duck,?I said, ?looks like your boss got
me fixed up.?
?Uh-huh. He's the kind of guy usually gets what he
wants.?
?Someday he's going to get more than he asks for,?I
said quietly.
Duck nodded. ?Uh-huh. You got some bad eyes
there.?
?It was a rough fight.?
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Duck's eyes sparked. ?I'd of give a mint,?he said
sincerely, ?to have seen it! You and Tony Innes, and no
holds barred! Yeah, that would be one for the book.?He
looked at me again. ?You're a great fighter, kid.?
?So's Ludlow.?I looked at Duck. ?Miller, at heart
you're a right guy. Why do you stick with a louse like
Lanning??
Duck rubbed his cigarette out against his heel. ?I
like money. I been hungry too much. I eat now, I got my
own car, I got a warm apartment, I have a drink when I
want. I even got a little dough in the bank.?
I looked at him. Duck was down in the mouth. His
wide face and hard eyes didn't look right.
?Is it worth it, Duck??
He looked at me. ?No,?he said flatly. ?But I'm in.?
?Seen Marge??I asked.
That time he didn't look at me. ?Uh-huh. I have.
Often.?
Often? That made me wonder. I looked at him again.
?How's she been getting along??
Duck looked up, shaking out a smoke. ?Marge gets
along, don't ever forget that. Marge gets along. Like
me,?he hesitated, ?she's been hungry too much.?
He turned on his heel and walked away. He was
there to look at me, to report to Lanning how I looked so
they could figure on Ludlow's fight. Well, I knew how I
looked. I'd been through the mill. And what he'd said
about Marge I didn't like.
She was waiting for me at the ranch, sitting in the
canary-yellow convertible. She looked like a million, and
her smile was wide and beautiful. Yet somehow, the
change made her look different. I mean, my own change.
I'd been away. I'd been through a rough deal, I was back,
and seeing her now I saw her with new eyes. Yes, she was
hard around the eyes and mouth.
When I kissed her something inside me said, ?Kid,
this is it. This babe is wrong for you.?
?How's it, honey??I said. ?Everything all right??
?Yes, Danny, but your eyes!?she exclaimed. ?Your
poor eyes are cut!?
80
?Yeah. Me an' Tony Innes had a little brawl out
West. Maybe,?I said, ?you read about it??
?Everybody did,?she said frankly. ?Do you think it
was wise, Dan? Telling that stuff about Mark Lanning??
?Sure, baby. I fight in the open, cards on the table.
Guys like Lanning don't like that.?I looked down at her.
?Honey, he's through.?
?Through? Mark Lanning??She shook her head.
?You're whistling in the dark, Dan. He's big, he's too
strong. He's got this town sewed up.?
?It's only one town,?I said.
Right then I didn't know she was working with Lanning.
I didn't know she was selling me out. Maybe, down
inside, I had a hunch, but I didn't know. That was why
I didn't see that I'd slipped the first seed of doubt into
her thoughts.
That evening two plain sedans pulled up the drive
and stopped in front of the porch where I was sitting, feet
up, reading the newspaper. Something about the men
that got out, maybe it was their identical haircuts or the
drab suits that they wore, said ?government?in square,
block lettering.
?Evening,?the first one said. ?I'm special agent
Crowley, FBI.?He flipped open his wallet to show me his
ID. ?This,?he indicated a taller man from the second
car, ?is Bill Karp, with the State Attorney General's office.
We'd like to talk to you about a story we read in
the newspaper . . .l?
Before they were done we'd talked for four hours,
and a court reporter took it all down.
Three days I rested, just working about six rounds a day
with the skipping rope and shadowboxing. Then I
started in training again, and in earnest. We had a ring
under the trees, and I liked it there. Joe Moran was with
me, and Buck Farley.
It went along like that until two days before the
fight. Then Pop came in, he had a long look at me, and he
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 81
pushed his wide hat back on his head and took the cigar
from his lips.
?Kid,?he said, ?I got a tip today. Your dame's
bettin' on Ludlow.?
If anybody had sprung that on me, even Pop Farley,
before I went west, I'd have said he was a liar. Now I just
looked at him. Pop was my friend. Maybe the best one I
had. I was like a son to him, and Pop wouldn't lie to me.
?Give it to me, Pop,?I said. ?What do you know??
?Saw her coming from Mark Lanning's office. I got
curious and I had her followed. I found out she's hocked
her jewelry to bet on Ludlow. I traced the sale of that
yellow car. Lanning paid for it.?
Well, I got out of the ring and walked back to the
house. I pulled on my pants and a sweater, I changed into
some heavy shoes. Then I went for a walk.
There was work to be done. Fences needed mending,
one barn would soon need a new roof, over the winter I
would have to repair my tractor, which hadn't worked
right in years ... I always dreamed I was doing it for
someone, someone besides me, that is. Suddenly I realized
that person wasn't Marge and never would be.
Marge Hamlin meant a lot to me, but hurt as it did,
it wasn't as bad as it would have been before I went west.
That trip had made me see things a lot clearer.
I walked in the hills, breathing a lot of fresh, cool air,
and before long I began to feel better. Well, maybe Duck
was right. She had been hungry too much. Somehow, I
didn't find any resentment in me.
We were sitting on the porch the day of the fight when
Marge drove up. She'd been out twice before, but I was
gone. She looked at my eyes when I walked down to the
car. I heard Pop and Buck get up and go inside.
Marge looked beautiful as a picture, and just as warm.
?Marge,?I said, ?you shouldn't have bet that
money.?Her eyes went sharp, and she started to speak.
?It's okay,?I said, ?we all have to live. You play it your
82
I way, it's just that you'll lose, and that'll be too bad.
I You're going to need the money.?
I ?What do you mean? Who told you how I bet??
I ?It doesn't matter. Copper those bets if you can, beI
cause I'm going to win.?
I ?With those eyes??She was hard as ice now.
I ?Sure, even with these eyes. Tony Innes was a good
I boy. I beat him. Outweighed fifteen pounds, I beat him.
I I'll beat Ludlow, too.?
I ?Like fun you can!?Her voice was bitter. ?You
I haven't a chance!?
I ?Take my tip, Marge. And then,?I added, ?cut
I loose from Mark. He won't do right by you, baby. He
I won't be able to, even if he wanted to.?
Š?What do you mean? What can you do to Mark??
Contempt was an inch thick in her voice.
_ ?It isn't me. That story from out West started it.
jg Mark's through. He's shooting everything on this fight.
'? He still thinks he's riding high. He isn't. Neither are
:? you.?
She looked at me. ?You don't seem much cut up
about this,?she said then.
t ?I'm not. You're no bargain, honey. In fact you've
I been a waste of my time.?
That got her. She had sold me out for Mark Lanning
and his money, but she didn't like to think I was taking it
so easy. She had set herself up to be the prize, but now
she wasn't the prize I wanted. She started the car, spun
the wheel and left the ranch with the car throwing gravel
as I walked back inside.
That night you couldn't have forced your way into the
fight club with a jimmy. The Zenith Arena was jammed
to the doors, and when Ludlow started for the ring, a
friend told me and I slid off the table and looked at Pop.
?Well, Skipper,?I said, ?here goes everything.?
?You'll take him,?Buck said, but he wasn't sure. It's
hard to fight with blood running into your eyes.
When we were in the center of the ring, Buck Farley
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 83
was with me. I turned to him. ?You got that heater,
Buck??
?Sure thing.?He showed me the butt of his .45
under his shirt.
The referee's eyes widened. Ludlow's narrowed and
he touched his thin lips with his tongue.
?Just a tip.?I was talking to the referee. ?Nobody
stops this fight. No matter how bloody I get, or no
matter how bloody Ludlow gets, this fight goes on to the
end. When you count one of us out, that will be soon
enough.
?Buck,?I said, ?if this referee tries to give this to
Ludlow any way but on a knockout or decision at the
end of fifteen rounds, kill him.?
Of course, I didn't really mean it. Maybe I didn't.
Buck was another guess. Anyway, the referee was sure to
the bottom of his filthy little soul that I did mean it. He
was scared, scared silly.
Then I went back to my corner and rubbed my feet
in the resin. This was going to be murder. It was going to
be plain, unadulterated murder.
The gong sounded.
Van Ludlow was a tough, hard-faced blond who
looked like he was made from granite. He came out,
snapped a fast left for my eyes, and I went under it, came
in short with a right to the ribs as he faded away. He
jabbed twice and missed. I walked around him, feinted,
and he stepped away, watching me. The guy had a left
like a cobra. He stabbed the left and I was slow to slip it.
He caught me, but too high.
Ludlow stepped it up a little, missed a left and
caught me with a sweet right hand coming in. He threw
that right again and I let it curl around my neck and
smashed both hands to the body, in close. We broke
clean and then he moved in fast, clipped me with a right
uppercut and then slashed a left to my mouth that hurt
my bad lip. I slipped two lefts to the head and went in
close, ripping both hands to the body before he tied me
up. He landed a stiff right to the head as the bell rang.
Three rounds went by just like that. Sharp, fast
84
boxing, and Ludlow winning each of them by a steadily
increasing margin. My punches were mostly to the body
in close. In the fourth the change came.
He caught me coming in with a stiff left to the right
eye and a trickle of blood started. You could hear a low
moan from the crowd. They had known it was coming.
Blood started trickling into my eye. Ludlow stabbed
a left and got in close. ?How d'you like it, boy??
?Fine!?I said, and whipped a left hook into his ribs
that jolted him to his socks.
He took two steps back and I hit him with both
hands. Then the fight turned into a first-rate blood-andthunder
scrap.
Van Ludlow could go. I give him that. He came in fast,
stabbed a left to my mouth, and I went under another one
and smashed a right into his ribs that sounded like somebody
had dropped a plank. Then I ripped up a right uppercut
that missed but brought a whoop from the crowd.
Five and six were a brawl with blood all over everything.
Both my eyes were cut and there was blood in my
mouth. I'd known this would happen and so was prepared
for it. Ludlow threw a wicked right for my head in
the seventh round and I rolled inside and slammed my
right to his ribs again. He backed away from that one.
?Come on, dish face!?I told him politely. ?You like
it, don't you??
He swung viciously, and I went under it and let him
have both of them, right in the lunch basket. He backed
up, looking unhappy, and I walked into him blazing away
with both fists. He took two, slipped a left, and rocked
me to my number nines with a rattling right hook.
He was bloody now, partly mine and partly his own.
I shot a stiff left for his eye and just as it reached his face,
turned my left glove outside and ripped a gash under his
eye with the laces that started a stream of blood.
?Not bleeding??I protested in close. ?That wasn't
in the lesson for today. I'm the one supposed to bleed!?
The bell cut him off short, and he glared at me. I
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 85
took a deep breath and walked back to my corner. I
couldn't see myself. But I could guess. My face felt like it
had been run through a meat grinder, but I felt better
than I had in months. Then I got the shock of my life.
Tony Innes was standing in my corner.
?Hi, champ!?He looked at me, got red around the
gills, and grinned. ?Shucks, man! You're a fighter. Don't
tell me the guy who licked me can't take Van Ludlow.?
?You ever fight Ludlow??I was still standing up. I
didn't care. I felt good.
?No,?he said.
?Well,?I told him, ?it ain't easy!?
When the bell sounded, I went out fast, feeling good.
I started a left hook for his head and the next thing I
knew the referee was saying ?Seven!?
I rolled over, startled, wondering where the devil I'd
been, and got my feet under me. I came up fast as Van
moved in, but not fast enough. A wicked right hand
knocked me into the ropes and he followed it up, but
fast. He jabbed me twice, and blind with blood, I never
saw the right.
That time it was the count of three I heard, but I
stayed where I was to eight, then came up. I went down
again, then again. I was down the sixth time in the round
when the bell rang. Every time I'd get up, he'd floor me. I
never got so tired of a man in my life.
Between rounds they had my eyes fixed up. Tony
Innes was working on them now, and he should have
been a second. He was as good a man on cut eyes as any
you ever saw.
The ninth round opened with Ludlow streaking a
left for my face, and I went under it and hit him with a
barrage of blows that drove him back into the ropes. I
nailed him there with a hard right and stabbed two lefts
to his mouth.
He dished up a couple of wicked hooks into my
middle that made me feel like I'd lost something, and
then I clipped him with a right. He jerked his elbow into
86
my face, so I gave his the treatment with my left and he
rolled away along the ropes and got free.
I stepped back and lanced his lip with a left, hooked
that same left to his ear, and took a wicked left to the
body that jerked my mouth open, and then he lunged
close and tried to butt.
?What's the matter??I said. ?Can't you win it fair??
He jerked away from me and made me keep my
mouth shut with a jolting left. I was counterpunching
now. He started a hook and I beat him with an inside
right that set him back on his heels. He tried to get his
feet set, and rolled under a punch. I caught him with
both hands and split one of his eyes.
Ludlow came in fast. It was a bitter, brutal, bloody
fight and it was getting worse. His eyes were cut as badly
as mine now, and both of us were doing plenty of
bleeding. I was jolting him with body punches, and it
was taking some of the snap out of him. Not that he
didn't have plenty left. That guy would always have
plenty left.
Sweat streamed into my eyes and the salt made me
blink. I tried to wipe the blood away and caught a right
hook for my pains. I went into a crouch and he put a
hand on my head, trying to spin me. I was expecting that
and hooked a left high and wide that caught him on the
temple. It took him three steps to get his feet under him,
and I was all over him like a cold shower.
He went back into the ropes, ripping punches with
both hands, but I went on into him. He tried to use the
laces and hit me low once, but that wasn't stopping me.
Not any. I was out to get this guy, and get him but good. I
hung him on the ropes and then the bell sounded and I
turned and trotted to my corner.
Tony Innes was there, and he leaned over. ?Watch
yourself, kid. Mark's got some muscle men here.?
?Don't let it throw you,?Buck said grimly,
?so'vewe!?
I looked at him, and then glanced back at the crowd.
Lanning was there, all right, and Gasparo was with
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 87
him, but they both looked unhappy. Then I recognized
some faces. Bulge Mahaney, the carnival strong man
from Greater American, had a big hand resting on Lanning's
shoulder. Beside him, with a heavy cane I knew to
be loaded with lead, was Charley Dismo, who ran the
Ferris wheel.
Behind them, around them, were a half-dozen tough
carnival roughnecks. I grinned suddenly, and then, right
behind my corner, I saw somebody else. It was Mantry,
the big guy I fought several times. He lifted a hand and
waved to me, grinning from ear to ear. Friends? Gosh, I
had lots of friends.
Yet, in that minute, I looked for Marge. No, there
was no love in me for her, but I felt sorry for the girl. I
caught her eye, and she was looking at me. She started to
look away, but I waved to her, and smiled. She looked
startled, and when the bell rang I got a glimpse of her
again, and there were tears in her eyes.
Van Ludlow wasn't looking at tears in anybody's
eyes. He came out fast and clipped me with a right that
rang all the bells in my head. I didn't have to look to see
who these bells were tolling for. So I got off the canvas,
accepted a steamy left hand to get close and began
putting some oomph into some short arm punches into
his middle.
He ripped into me but I rolled away, and he busted
me again, and then I shoved him away and clipped him.
His legs turned to rubber and I turned his head with a left
and set Mary Ann for the payoff. He knew it was
coming, but the guy was still trying, he jerked away and
let one come down the main line.
That one got sidetracked about a flicker away from
my chin, but the right that I let go, with all the payoff
riding on it, didn't. It took him coming in and he let go
everything and dropped on his face so hard you'd have
thought they'd dropped him from the roof!
A cloud of resin dust floated up and I walked back to
my corner. I leaned on the ropes feeling happy and good,
and then the referee came over and lifted my right and
88
the crowd went even crazier than they had been. The referee
let go my hand, and when I started to take a bow, I
bowed all the way to the canvas, just hit it on my face
and passed out cold.
Only for a minute, though. They doused me with
water and picked me up, and they were still working
over Van Ludlow. I walked across toward his corner,
writing shallow figure S's with my feet, and put my hand
on his shoulder.
Duck Miller was standing there with his cigar in his
face and he looked at me through the smoke.
?Hi, champ,?he said.
* I stopped and looked at him. ?I won some dough on
this fight,?I said. ?I'm going to open a poolroom, gym,
and bowling alley in Zenith. I need a manager. Want
the job??
He looked at me, and something came into his eyes
that told me Duck Miller had all I'd ever believed he had.
?Sure,?he said, ?I'd never work for a better guy!?
I walked back to my corner then, and Buck Farley
slipped my robe around my shoulders and I crawled
through the ropes. I walked back to the dressing room.
Pop was leaning on the table with a roll of bills you could
carry in a wheelbarrow. ?I bet some money,?he said
happily, ?a lot of money!?He looked up. ?And you,?he
said, ?even if you never get a middleweight title fight,
you are still going to be a wealthy young man!?
When I came out, Marge was sitting in the canary
convertible.
?Everything all right??I asked.
?Yes.?She looked at me.
?If it isn't,?I said, ?let me know.?
She sat there looking at me, and then she said, ?I
guess I made a mistake.?
?No,?I said, ?you weren't brave enough to take a
chance.?
All the way back to the ranch I could hear Pop and
Buck talking about how the G-men came in and picked
Lanning up for some gyp deal on his income tax, an
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 89
investigation stirred up by my stories from the West.
But I wasn't thinking of that.
I was thinking that in the morning I'd slip on some
old brogans and a sweater to take a walk over the hills.
I'd watch the grass shifting in the wind, see the brown
specks of my cattle in the meadows, the blunt angles of
my corrals and barns. I was thinking that after the frozen
winters in Korea, the blood and sweat of the ring-
choking down that smoky air ... how I loved and hated
it-I had a chance with something that was really mine. I
had no one to fight anymore.
90
 CRASH LANDING
Dyea was the first to speak. ?Don't anyone move.?
His voice was quiet, and its very calm destroyed
the moment of rising panic. ?The plane seems to
be resting insecurely, we must act carefully and with intelligence.
I will investigate.?
With infinite care, he straightened himself from his
seat, glancing briefly at the wreckage of the nose. There
was no possibility that pilot or co-pilot were alive. The
stewardess was sitting in the aisle, where she had been
thrown by the crash. She looked toward him uncertainly.
?Miss Taylor,?he said, recalling her name from the
tab above her breast pocket, ?I was an officer in the
Army, and I have some experience with this sort of thing.
If all will cooperate, I'm sure we will be all right.?
He could see the relief in her eyes, and she nodded
quickly. ?Sit still,?he said, before she could rise. ?I'll
only be a moment. The plane is resting, I believe, on a
mountainside. Its position seems to be precarious.?
The crashed commuter plane lay on the mountain,
and could be no more than a dozen feet from the crest of
the ridge. Balancing his weight, his body leaning against
the slant, he eased down the incline to the door in the
back of the cabin. Fortunately, it had not jammed. The
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 91
wind, which had been blowing hard, seemed to have
lulled, and he stepped carefully from the door.
Snow swirled around him as he took a few steps
back, along the fuselage, and then he looked down into
an awful void that dropped away beneath the very tail of
the plane. For a long moment he stared, awed by what he
could sense rather than see. The slightest gust of wind or
concerted movement could start the ship sliding, and in
an instant it would fall off into the black void.
Yet, where he stood, the rock was solid, covered
only by a thin coating of ice and snow blown by the wind.
Moving carefully, he checked the position of the cliff
edge and the area nearest the crashed plane. Then he returned
to the door.
Dyea stood outside and looked within. Five faces
had turned to stare at him. ?You must move one at a
time, and at my direction. The ship is in an extremely
dangerous position. If there is any confusion or hurry, it
may start sliding. You, in the right front seat, rise carefully.
If you're not sure you can move under your own
power, please tell me now.?
A voice came from that seat where no face showed.
?I cannot move. You must all go first.?
?Thank you.?Dyea looked at a fat man who clutched
a briefcase and was near the door. ?You, sir, will begin.
Rise carefully and cross to the door. Bring your blanket
with you. Be sure the blanket will catch on nothing.?
As if hypnotized, the man rose from his seat. Patiently,
he gathered the blanket, and with extreme economy of
movement, he folded it; then, with the blanket under
his arm, he moved to the door. As he stepped to the
snow, Dyea pointed. ?Walk ten steps forward, then three
to the left. There is a rock there that will protect us from
the wind.?
The man moved away, and Dyea turned to the next
person. Only when the five who were capable of moving
had been removed from the plane did Dyea look to the
hostess. ?Miss Taylor, get to your feet,?he said, ?move
carefully and gather all the remaining blankets and pass
them tome.?
92
?What about this man??She indicated the seat from
which the voice had come.
?He must wait. All our lives are in danger. Free of
the plane, they may still die of cold and exposure. We
must think first of the greatest number. Furthermore,?
he added, ?the gentleman's courage has already been
demonstrated.
?When you've given me all the blankets and coats,
get your first aid kit and as much food as you can. Move
very carefully and slowly. The ship is resting upon the
very lip of a cliff that looks to be more than six hundred
feet high.?
As the stewardess began her collecting of blankets,
Dyea looked toward the seat back where the remaining
occupant sat. ?My friend, moving you is going to be extremely
dangerous. Do not suggest that we shouldn't attempt
it, for we shall. However, I'll move you myself.
Miss Taylor will be out of the ship at the time. We may
both die. Therefore, think of any message you may want
to send to anyone who survives you. Also, if there is any
identification, pass it to the stewardess.?
?And you??The voice from the seat was calm, yet
seemed tightly held against some pain, or fear. ?What
of you??
?There is no one,?Dyea said quietly, ?I am a man
alone.?
Steadily, the stewardess made her trips; a dozen
blankets, food, then medicine. One of the men appeared
out of the darkness and accepted an armful of blankets.
?One per person,?Dyea said to him, ?then a second as
far as they go. The same for the coats. Then move this
food and the medicine kit into the shelter.?
?May I help??the man asked, nodding toward
the plane.
?Thank you, no. The added weight and movement
would only increase the risk.?He turned toward the
stewardess. ?Are any others alive??
She looked into several of the seats, then stopped
at one where he saw only a thin hand. ?Yes, this girl
is alive!?
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?Good. We will proceed as planned. Come out.?
Miss Taylor tiptoed carefully to the door and stepped
out into the snow. Dyea turned to her, and she saw his
strong, harshly cut face in the glow of the moon.
?If the plane carries us away,?he advised, ?you will
keep these people huddled together until daylight.?He
glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. ?It is now
three o'clock in the morning. It will begin to grow light
shortly after six, possibly a little before. When it has become
gray, make a stretcher of a couple of coats, load
anyone who may not be able to walk, and move eastward
along the ridge.
?When you've gone perhaps a quarter of a mile,
away from this precipice, angle down the mountain
toward the trees. Once there, build a fire and build a
shelter. You have matches??
?Yes.?She hesitated. ?Good luck.?
?Thanks. I'll move the injured man first.?
?I'll wait.?
?No. Please don't.?Dyea's voice was flat. ?Now,?he
lifted his voice to the man in the plane, ?your name and
address, please? And any message for the stewardess??
There was a moment of silence. ?I am Victor Barclay,
of Barclay and Paden, attorneys. My wife and children
are living in Brentwood, California.?He hesitated.
?Only my love to them.?
Miss Taylor turned her dark, serious eyes to the big
man beside her. ?And you, sir??
?No message,?Dyea said.
?Your name??
?It does not matter.?
?But isn't there someone??
?No.?
?I would like to know.?
He smiled. She saw it clearly in the moonlight. The
dark seriousness of his face changed. ?My name is Dyea.
Spelled D-Y-E-A. My family pronounced it dee-ah, the
accent on the first syllable.?
He hunched his shoulders against the cold. ?Go
now. Stay clear of the plane. I believe the wings are both
94
gone, but some part might be under the snow and might
drag you over. The rock will give you shelter.?
When the woman was gone, Dyea stepped into the
ship. With the decrease of weight, the situation was even
more precarious. He walked carefully to the seated man.
A blanket was over his legs, but obviously, both were
broken. No other injuries were apparent. ?All right, Barclay,?
Dyea said, ?I'm going to pick you up. It may hurt
like the devil. Despite that, you must hold yourself very
still. If you move, you'll overbalance me on this incline
and I'll fall. A fall would start the plane sliding.?
?Very well. I'm ready.?
Dyea's eyes flickered for the first time. He looked
down the plane toward the tail, then at the door. He
touched his lips with his tongue and, setting his feet carefully,
stooped and picked up the injured man. As he
straightened, he felt a sickening sensation of movement
beneath him. He stood stock-still, holding the lawyer as
if he were a child. The movement stopped with a faint
grating sound; turning, Dyea took his first step. As he
put down his foot with the combined weight of nearly
four hundred pounds, he felt the ship shift beneath him.
A queer sensation went up his spine, such a feeling as he
had known but once before, when ice cracked beneath
his feet out on a lake, a half mile from shore.
He took another step. There was no further movement,
and he climbed down into the snow and walked
over to the dark huddle of figures waiting in the lee of
the rock.
Placing the lawyer on a coat spread out for him,
Dyea straightened. ?I think both thighs are fractured. I
did not examine him. Possibly the lower part of the left
leg, also. Keep him very warm and set the legs if you can.?
Barclay looked up through the sifting flakes. His
eyes were large with pain. ?Don't go back,?he said,
?that little girl may not be alive by now.?
?She was unconscious,?Miss Taylor said.
?It's no matter. I'm going back.?
?Don't be a fool, man!?Barclay burst out. ?That
plane almost went with us. It won't stand any more
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 95
moving around. You know it and I know it. There's no
use losing two lives when the one may go anyway.?
Dyea did not reply. He turned, chafing his hands together.
Then he walked quietly and stopped beside the
plane. He looked around him, feeling the bitter cold for
the first time. Then he glanced back to where the survivors
were gathered, obscured by the swirling snow.
The wind was rising. It would be a bitter night and a
miserable tomorrow. Rescue parties might be days in
coming but, with luck, the group could survive.
He balked at the door, and the thought that the girl
must be dead by now flashed through his mind. Maybe,
but probably not. He knew that was his fear of returning
to the plane sneaking up on him. He shook his head and
chuckled. The sound of it revived him, and he put a hand
on each side of the plane door, a foot on the edge.
He stepped inside the plane and moved, gently as
possible, to the girl's seat. As he bent to look at her, she
opened her eyes and looked right into his.
?Don't move,?he said, ?there has been an accident.?
She looked at him very carefully, at his eyes, his face,
and his hair. In the plane, the moonlight shone through
the windows, bright between scudding clouds. ?I know,?
she said. ?Who are you??
?It does not matter. Think of this. Several of the passengers
were killed, but six have been removed and are
safe. If you and I can get out, we will be safe, too, and
we're the last.?
Her eyes were wide and gray. They bothered him,
somehow. They reminded him of other eyes. ?Where
are we??
?On a very high mountain. It is very cold and the
wind is blowing hard. We're on the edge of a high cliff.
When I pick you up, the plane may slip. It did with the
last person I carried, but he was very heavy. So you must
hold very still.?
?Maybe I can walk. Let me try.?
?No. If you stumbled or fell, the shock would start
us moving. I must carry you.?
?You're very brave.?
96
?No, I'm not. Right now I'm scared. My stomach
feels empty and my mouth is dry. I'll bet yours is, too,
isn't it??
?You're risking your life for me.?
?You're a romantic child. And believe me, the risk is
much less than you might suppose.?
He had been on one knee, talking to her. Now he slid
an arm beneath her legs and another around her body,
under her arms. An arm slid trustfully around his neck
and he got carefully to his feet. After Barclay's weight,
she seemed very light. He stood still, looking toward the
door. It was seven steps, every step an increasing danger.
She looked toward the door, too, then at him. ?Isn't
it strange? I'm not afraid anymore.?
?I wish I could say I wasn't.?
He took his first step, placing his foot down carefully,
then, shifting his weight, he swung the other leg.
Then the right and again the left. Nothing happened. He
took a deep breath, looked at the black rectangle of the
door, then took another step. As if moved by the added
weight, the ship quivered slightly. The movement was
only a tremor, but Dyea immediately stepped again, and
then again.
Under his feet the plane started to move, and he
knew that this time it was going all the way. He lunged at
the door and shoved the girl out into the snow. He saw
her land, sprawling. The nose of the plane was sliding
down while the tail held almost still, the body rotating.
Fortunately, it was swinging in an arc opposite from
where the girl had fallen. Then the whole plane slid
in one section over the edge of the cliff. As it fell free,
Dyea, with one agonized, fear-driven snap of his muscles,
sprang upward and outward into the blackness and
swirling snow.
There was one awful instant when, hands spread
high and wide, he seemed to be hanging in space. He hit a
steep slope partially covered with snow. He slid, then felt
his lower body going over ... he clutched, grabbing a
fingerhold just as he began to fall. His arms gave a
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 97
frightful jerk but he held himself, swinging in black,
swirling snow over a vast, cold emptiness.
The moon emerged from under a cloud, and he
started upward. He was no more than four feet below
the edge, the cliff before him not as sheer as he'd
thought. The brow sloped steeply back, and on the very
edge was the girl, peering over at him.
?I'll get help,?she said.
?No.?He knew his fingers would not retain their
hold. ?Can you brace yourself against something? Can
your heels dig in??
She glanced around, then nodded. ?Then slip out of
your coat and lower the end toward me. Hang on tight,
but if you feel yourself going, just let go.?
His fingers were slipping in their icy crack, already
so numb he could scarcely feel them. Snow swirled in his
face and the wind whipped at his mouth, stealing his
breath away. He gasped, then the coat slapped him in the
face. He let go with one hand and swung it around and
up, grasping the suede coat. He felt the weight hit her,
but she held it. Carefully, he drew himself up, hand over
hand. When his feet were in the crack where his fingers
had been, he climbed over and lay beside her in the snow.
?I never was an Army officer,?he whispered. ?I
never was anything.?
His arm was stretched out and his cuff pulled back.
He could see the dial on his watch. It was just eleven minutes
past three.
98
 UNDER THE HANGING WALL
i
The bus bumped and jolted over the broken, heatribbed
pavement, and I fought my way out of a
sodden sleep and stared at the road ahead. My
face felt sticky and my head ached from the gas fumes
and heat. Twisting and turning in my sleep had wound
my clothes around me, so I straightened up and tried to
pull them back into place again.
We were climbing a steep, winding road that looked
as if it had been graded exclusively for mountain goats. I
ran my ringers through my hair and tried pulling my
pants around to where they would be comfortable. In the
process, my coat fell open and revealed the butt of my
gun in its shoulder holster.
The fat man stared across the aisle at me. ?Better not
let 'em catch you with that rod,?he advised, ?or you'll
wind up in jail.?
?Thanks,?I said.
?Insurance is my line,?he said, ?Harbater's the
name. Ernie Harbater. Do a lot of business up this way.?
It was hot. The air in the bus was like the air over
a furnace, and when I looked off across the desert that
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 99
fell away to my left, the horizon was lost to dancing
heat waves.
There were five people on the bus. Harbater, who
wore a gray gabardine suit, the trousers stretched tight
over fat thighs, his once white shirt bulging ominously
over his belt, was the only one who sat near me. He
looked as uncomfortable as I felt, and lying beside him
on the seat was a crumpled and dog-eared copy of a detective
magazine with a corner torn off the cover.
Three seats ahead a girl with stringy and streaked
blond hair, and lipstick that didn't conform to the shape
of her mouth, sweltered in her own little world. Across
the aisle from her was another girl, who wore a gray
tailored suit. The coat lay over the back of the seat beside
her.
The fifth passenger was another man, with the rough
physique and pale skin of a mining man. He squinted
placidly out the window as the bus groaned unhappily
and crept over the brow of the mountain. For a moment
there was a breeze that was almost cool, and then we
started down from the wide world in which we had existed,
and into the oven of a tight little canyon.
We rounded a curve finally, and Winrock lay ahead
of us, a mining town. Most of the buildings were strewn
along the hillsides, empty and in ruins, the one graded
street lying along the very bottom of the canyon. The
business buildings were all frame or sheet metal but two.
One was the brick bank, a squat and ugly thing on a
corner, the other an ancient adobe that had once been a
saloon. One of the reasons that I had gotten this job was
because I'd worked in places like this, but that didn't
mean I was wild about coming back.
Harbater had dozed off, so I shucked my gun from
its holster and thrust it beneath my belt, under my shirt.
Then I stowed the holster in my half-empty bag and slid
gratefully out of my coat. My shirt was sweat-soaked.
The bus ground to a halt and dust sifted over it.
Groggily, I crawled to my feet. Coat over one arm, and
my bag in the other hand, I started for the door. The girl
100
with the stringy hair was gathering up some odds and
ends, and she looked up at me with that red blotch that
passed for a mouth. Her lips, normally not unattractive,
were lipsticked into what passed for a cupid's bow, and it
looked terrible.
The other girl had awakened suddenly, and when I
glanced down at her, I looked into a pair of wide, intelligent
gray eyes. She sat up, pushing back a strand of hair.
I swung down into the street, bag in hand.
Several loafers sat on a bench against the wall of
the Winrock Hotel. I glanced at the sign, then walked
up on the porch and shoved the door open with my
shoulder.
A scrawny man in a green eyeshade got up from behind
the desk and leaned on it. ?Got a room??I asked.
?Got fifty of 'em,?the clerk said. He dug out a key
and tossed it on the desktop. ?End of the hall, second
floor,?he said. ?Bath's next door.?
I picked up my bag.
?That'll be ten dollars,?he said.
I put the bag down again and fished for some bills. I
pulled off two fives and handed them over, then went up
the worn steps and down the creaky hall. If anybody ever
dropped a match, the place would go up in one whopping
blast of flame. It was old, and dry as tinder.
?You got yourself a lulu this time!?I said disgustedly.
?What a guy will do for money!?
Tossing the bag on the old iron bed, I threw the coat
over the back of a chair and peeled off my shirt. It was
so wet it stuck to my back. Then I took off my shoes
and socks and had started on my pants when I recalled
the bath was next door. Still disgusted, I picked up a
towel and, barefoot, stuck my head into the hall. There
was nobody in sight, so I came out and went into the
bathroom.
When I'd bathed and dressed, I put my gun back in
my waistband and, taking my coat over my arm, walked
downstairs.
The wide, almost empty room that did duty for a
lobby had a bar along one side, two worn leather chairs
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and an old-fashioned settee down the middle, and four
brass cuspidors.
Two men loafed at the bar. One of them was a bigshouldered,
brown-faced man with a powerful chest. He
was handsome in a heavy, somewhat brutal fashion and
had the look of a man it would be bad to tangle with.
The other was a shorter man, evidently one of the oldest
inhabitants. I put a foot on the rail and ordered a bourbon
and soda.
The brown-faced man looked at me. He had hard
eyes, that guy. I turned to the bartender, who was an
overstuffed party in a dirty shirt. He had a red fringe
around a bald head, and red hair on his arms and the
backs of his hands.
?Where do I find the law around here??
He opened his heavy-lidded eyes, then jerked his
head toward the brown-faced man. ?He's it,?he said.
?You the deputy sheriff??I asked. ?Are you
Soderman??
He looked at me and nodded.
I walked down the bar and flipped my badge at him.
?Bruce Blake, I'm a private detective,?I said. ?I'm here
to look over the Marshall case.?
?It's closed.?His hard eyes studied me like I was
something dirty he'd found in his drink.
?His brother wanted it looked into. Just routine.?
He hesitated, tipping his glass and studying his drink
carefully. Then he shrugged. ?All right. It's your time.?
I shrugged my own shoulders and grinned. ?Actually,
it's Lew Marshall's time. I'm just going through
the motions.?
?You want to talk to Campbell? He's in jail, waitin'
trial.?
?Uh-huh. Might just as well.?
On the way to the jail, Soderman told me about the case.
?This Campbell owned the Dunhill mine. It had been
rich once, then the vein petered out and they shut down.
Campbell, he wouldn't believe the hole was finished.
102
He'd helped locate the original claims, he an' Dunhill together.
Ten years he worked around, tryin' to find what
happened to that vein. Then he found a pocket and got
enough ore out of it to hire an engineer. He hired torn
Marshall.
?Marshall came in here and worked for two months,
and then quit, turning in a report that it was useless, the
mine was played out. Campbell gave up then, and he
took a regular job, mostly to pay his daughter's tuition at
some school she was goin' to out in Los Angeles.
?Finally, he got an offer for the mine. It wasn't
much, but it was something, and he sold. Sold it out for a
few thousand dollars.?
Soderman looked up, grinning wryly. His teeth were
big, white and strong looking. ?When the new outfit
moved in, Marshall was the superintendent. They opened
the mine up an' he had the vein uncovered in less than
a week!?
?That's bad. He finds the vein, lies to Campbell,
then gets backing. That was dirty.?
?You said it!?Soderman's voice was hard with
malice. I couldn't blame him. Probably most of the
townspeople sympathized with Campbell.
?Anyway,?he continued, ?the day shift came out of
the hole, and Marshall went down to look it over. They
didn't have a night shift, but were plannin' one. Nobody
ever saw Marshall again alive.?
?How does Campbell tie in??
?Weber, he was watchman at the mine, saw Campbell
go into the mine. He ran to stop him, but Campbell
was already inside. So Weber let him go.?
?When did they find Marshall??
?Day shift man found him when he came on the next
morning.?
?Nobody looked for him that night? What about
his wife??
Soderman shook his head. ?Marshall usually
worked at night, slept during the day. He'd been working
night shifts a long time, and got used to it. Habit he had.?
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?Work at home??
?He had an office at the mine.?
I shifted my coat to the other arm and pulled the wet
sleeve free of the flesh. Then I mopped my brow. The jail
was at the far end of town. It was hotter than blazes, and
as we plodded along in the dust, little whorls lifted
toward our nostrils. Dust settled on my pant legs, and
my shoes were gray with it.
This looked like they said, pretty open and shut.
Why was Lew Marshall suspicious? He had told me
nothing, just sent me along with a stiff retainer to look
into the killing.
The jail was a low concrete building with three cells.
It was no more than a holding tank for prisoners who
would be sent on to the county building up north.
?You got him in there??
The big man laughed. ?The old fool cussed the
prosecutor at the preliminary hearing. He wouldn't post
a bond, so the judge sent him back here.?
The air was like an oven inside. There was an office
that stood with the door open, and we walked in. As we
stepped into view of the three barred doors, I saw the
gray-eyed girl from the bus standing in front of one of
them. She started back as she saw us.
?Who are you??Soderman wasn't the polite sort.
?I'm Marian Campbell. I've come to see my father.?
?Oh??He looked at her, then he smiled. I had to
admit the guy was as good-looking as he was tough. I left
him looking at her and stepped to the cell door.
Campbell was standing there. He was a short, broad
man with heavy shoulders and a shock of white hair.
?I'm Bruce Blake, a private detective,?I said. ?They
sent me down here to look into Marshall's death. You
the guy who killed him??
?I haven't killed anybody an' I told 'em so!?He
looked right straight at me and his gray eyes reminded
me of the girl's. ?torn Marshall was a double-crossing
rat, an' maybe he needed a whippin', but not killin'. I'd
not waste my time killin' him.?
104
?What did you go to the mine for??I mopped my
brow. Soderman and the girl were both listening.
?To get some of that ore for evidence. I was going to
start suit against him.?
?You see him??
He hesitated. ?No,?he said finally. ?I never saw
hide nor hair of him. The snake!?
If I was going to ask intelligent questions I was going
to need more information. I ran my fingers through my
hair. ?Whew!?I said. ?It's hot here. Let's go.?
Soderman turned away and I followed him out into
the white heat of the street. It was a climb back, and that
didn't make me any happier. Certainly, Campbell had
motive and opportunity. The guy looked straight at you,
but a lot of crooks do that, too. And he was the type of
western man who wouldn't take much pushing around.
However, that type of western man rarely dodged issues
on his killings.
?What do you think??Soderman wanted to know.
He stopped, sticking a cigarette between his lips. He
cupped a match and lighted it.
?What can a guy think? Crotchety. Seems like he
might have the temper to do it.?
?Sure. Ain't even another suspect.?
?Let's talk to the wife.?
?Why talk to her??Soderman said roughly. ?She's
been bothered enough.?
?Yeah, but I can't go back and turn in a report when
I haven't even talked to his wife.?
Grudgingly, he admitted that. When he started up to
the house, it was easy to see why he'd hesitated. It was a
climb, and a steep one.
?What the devil did they live up here for??I asked.
?It would be a day's work to climb this hill, let alone
anything else!?
?This ain't their home. She's just livin' here a few
days. The Marshall house is even further up, but it's
easier to get at.?He pointed to a small white house with
two trees standing on the open hillside in full view of the
town. ?That's it.?
105
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 105
II
Donna Marshall was sitting in the living room when
we rapped on the door. She looked up quickly when
she heard Soderman's voice and started up from the
divan.
?Private detective to see you,?Soderman said
sharply. ?I tried to head him off.?
She was something to look at, this Donna Marshall
was. She made a man wonder why torn Marshall worked
nights. On second thought, if they had been married long,
you could imagine why he might work nights.
She was a blonde, a tall, beautifully made woman
who might have been a few pounds overweight, but not
so that any man would complain. She was a lot of
woman, and none of it was concealed.
?Come in, won't you??she said.
We filed into the room and I sat on the lip of an overstuffed
chair and fanned myself with my hat. ?It's too
hot,?I said.
She smiled, and she had a pretty smile. Her eyes were
a shade hard, I thought, but living in this country would
make anything hard.
?What is it you wish to know??
?I just thought I'd see you and ask a few questions.
It looks like Soderman here has the right man in jail, so
this is mostly routine. Anyway, it's too hot for a murder
investigation.?
She waited, a cigarette in her fingers. There was a
bottle of beer on the stand beside the divan. I could have
used one myself.
?Been married long ??
She nodded. ?Six years.?
?Happy??
?Yes.?Her answer was careless, and she didn't seem
very positive or much interested. Her eyes strayed past
me toward Soderman.
?Like living in these hick mining towns??
For the first time she seemed to look at me, and she
smiled. ?I don't see how anybody could,?she said.
106
?There's simply nothing to do. I didn't care for it, but
torn had his work to consider.?
Somehow I couldn't picture her fitting into such a
town as Winrock. She was the sort of woman who likes
nightclubs, likes dining and dancing. I didn't blame her for
not liking Winrock, however, I didn't care for it myself.
?How much did Marshall have invested in this
mine??
?Not much,?she said. ?It was mostly a job.?
Was that what she thought? I stared at the floor,
faintly curious. Lew and torn Marshall owned this mine,
and from all the evidence it had turned into a whale of a
rich hole. Well, maybe torn Marshall was the cagey sort.
Maybe he didn't tell his wife everything.
?Are you going to stay here??
?Here??She spoke so sharply that I glanced up. Her
voice and her expression told me what she thought of the
town a lot better than what she had to say. ?I wouldn't
stay here even a minute longer than I have to!?
She rubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Soderman
got up. ?Any more questions??he asked. ?We'd
better move on.?
?I guess that's right.?We all got up, and Soderman
turned toward the door. He sure was one big man. When
he moved you could see the weight of muscle in his
shoulders.
Donna Marshall started after him, and it gave me a
chance to pick up a familiar-looking magazine that lay
on the table near the ashtray. It wasn't exactly the thing
to do, but I slid it into my coat pocket as casually as possible.
They were going to the door together, so the move
went unnoticed.
When we got outside in the sun, I mopped my brow
again. ?Good-lookin' woman,?I said. ?If I had a
woman like that, I'd stay home nights.?
He looked around at me, a question in his eyes. They
weren't nice eyes when they looked at you like that, and I
found myself being glad I wasn't a crook who had to
come up against him. This Soderman could be a rough
customer.
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 107
?Where to now??he asked.
?Let's go up to their house,?I said, ?up where they
lived.?
?You got a craze for walkin',?he said with disgust.
?Can't we let it ride until later? When it cools off
a little??
?You go on down if you want,?I said. ?I'll just look
around a little more. I want to finish up and get out of
here. I haven't lost anything in this town.?
He led the way along the path that led to the Marshall
house, and we swung back the gate and entered.
Once inside, I stopped and looked back. From the
door you could see all the way down the winding path to
the town and the Dunhill mine beyond. You could see
everything that happened in town from this viewpoint,
and likewise, anyone on the street in town could see
anyone who came and went from this house.
There was little enough to see once we were inside.
There were three rooms in the house, and a wide porch.
The kitchen and living room offered nothing. There were
dirty dishes on the table and in the sink, and one thing
was plain enough: Donna Marshall was no housekeeper.
I wandered into the bedroom, not sure what I was
looking for. More than anything, I was looking and
hoping for a break, because I didn't even know why I
was up here. Lew Marshall had given me little to nothing
with which to work, merely telling me he wanted his
brother's murderer punished and wanted to be very sure
they got the right person.
Soderman had seated himself on the edge of the
porch outside. He was plainly disgusted with me, and he
wasn't alone. I was disgusted with myself, so when I'd
taken a quick look around, I turned to go. Then I saw
something under the head of the bed. I knelt quickly and
picked up several fragments of dried red mud.
After studying them a few minutes, I put them into
an envelope and slid them back into my pocket. Then I
took the head of the bed and, with a lift, swung it clear of
108
the wall. The dust under the bed was thick, but it had
been disturbed recently, for something had been lying
under that bed, something long and heavy, something
that could have been a man, or the body of a man.
?What've you found??Soderman appeared in the
door behind me, the last person I wanted near right then.
He must have moved swiftly and silently when he heard
me moving the bed. He was staring at me now, and his
lips were drawn over his white teeth. I shrugged and
motioned vaguely at the room.
?Nothing,?I said. ?Just looking around.?
?Haven't you had enough yet??he demanded impatiently.
?I'm gettin' fed up!?
?Then suppose you go on down to town??I suggested.
?I can find my way around now.?
His eyes could be ugly. ?No,?he said, and I didn't
like the way he said it. ?If you turn up anything, I want
to be the first to know.?
As we went out I palmed a map of the mine that I
had noticed on the sideboard. It was creased where it had
been folded to fit in someone's, probably torn Marshall's,
pocket. We started back down the steep path. I
asked, ?Rained around here lately??
He hesitated before answering my question, and I
could see he was weighing the question in his mind,
trying to see what it might imply.
?Yes, it rained a few days ago,?he said finally. ?In
fact, it rained the day before the killing.?
The day before? I glanced off across the canyon.
Whatever had been under that bed, it could scarcely
have been Marshall's body, although it looked like
something of the sort had been lying there. No man,
not even so powerful a man as Soderman, could have
carried a body from here, across town, and to the mine
shaft.
Not even if he dared take a chance in leaving the
house with an incriminating load when he had to cross
the town from here. Certainly, crossing the town was not
much of a task, but at any time, even in the dead of night,
he might meet someone on that path or in the street it-
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 109
self. And if he, or anyone else, had done such a thing, he
would have had to pass several houses.
There was no way a car could approach the house. It
was on a steep canyon side, and there was no road or
even a trail beyond the path on which we had come.
One thing remained for me to do. To have a look at
the mine itself, to examine the scene of the crime. There
was, in the back of my mind, a growing suspicion, but as
yet it was no more than the vaguest shadow bolstered by
a few stray bits of evidence, none of which would stand
for a minute in court under the examination of a good
lawyer. And none of them actually pointed to the guilty
party or parties.
There was the magazine, a bit of red mud that might
have come from a shoe, and some disturbed dust under a
bed. There was also a very attractive young woman of a
type who might have caused trouble in more selective
circles than were to be found among the lusty males of
Winrock . . . and she was tied in with a mining engineer
who did not sleep at home.
We walked back to the jail. It sat close against the mountainside,
and there had been some excavation there to fit
the building into the niche chosen for it. There was a
pump set off to one side of the entrance that leaked into
the earth to one side of the path. Bright yellow bees hovered
around the evaporating pool in a landing pattern
like water bombers on their way to a forest fire. Soderman
led the way inside. The jail office was scarcely
more than the size of one of the cells.
?What did he have on him when he was found??
I asked.
Impatiently, Soderman opened his desk and dumped
an envelope on the desktop. I loosened the string and
emptied the contents. It was little enough. A box of
matches, a tobacco pouch, some keys, a pocket knife, a
couple of ore samples, and a gun.
The gun was a .38 Police Positive, an ugly and
competent-looking gat, if you asked me. It was brand
110
spanking new. There were no marks in the bluing from
the cylinder having been rotated, no dirt between the
rear of the barrel and the top frame, and no lead in the rifling.
It was fully loaded and had never been fired.
That gun was something to set a man thinking, and
it needed no more than a glance to tell me how new the
gun was. Why had torn Marshall suddenly bought a
gun, apparently just a few days before he was murdered?
?Wonder what he had that for??I mused.
Soderman shrugged. ?Snakes, maybe. Lots of us
carry guns around here.?
?He hasn't had it long.?
?Listen.?Soderman leaned his big heavy hands on
the desk and glared at me. ?What are you gettin' at?
You've been nosin' around all day, diggin' into a closed
case. We've got the guilty party right in this jail, an'
we've got enough evidence for a conviction.?
It was time to start something. If I was going to crack
this one, I was going to have to get things rolling. If I
could get them worried, perhaps I could do something.
Anything I told him would get around. I hoped it would
get to the right people.
?Then you can guess again,?I told him. ?I've a hunch
Campbell didn't do it, and a better hunch who did!?
He leaned farther over the desk and his face swelled.
?You tryin' to make a fool of me? You tryin' to come in
here an' show me up? Well, I'm tellin' you now! Get out!
Get out of town on the next bus!?
?Sorry,?I said, ?I'm not leaving. I'm here on a legitimate
job, and I'll stay until it's wound up. You can
cooperate or not as you please, but I tell you this: I'm
going to hang this on the guilty parties, you can bet your
last dollar on that!?
Turning on my heel, I left him like that, and walked
back to the hotel. He didn't know how much of a case
I had, and to be honest, I didn't have a thing. The mine remained
to be looked at, and I was hoping there would be
something there that would tell me what I wanted to know.
Above all, something concrete in the way of evidence.
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 111
Yet why had torn Marshall bought a gun before he
was killed?
Why was the alarm clock in the Marshall home set
for five a.m., when torn Marshall remained at the mine
all night?
And who, or what, had been under the bed on that
last rainy day?
These things and a cheap magazine were what I had
for working points, and none of them indicated a warrant
for an arrest. And I had nothing to offer a jury.
Had he been afraid of Campbell, would he not have
bought the gun before his return? torn Marshall had
been a rugged specimen, much more than a physical
match for Campbell, and he did not seem to be a man
who resorted to guns.
Hence, it stood to reason that he bought the gun for
a man he could not handle with his fists. Flimsy reasoning,
perhaps, but there it was.
torn Marshall had spent his nights at the mine.
Donna Marshall wasn't one to rise at five in the morning.
Who had set the alarm I'd noticed beside the bed? It was
set for five, and Soderman and I had been in the house
from a quarter to five in the afternoon until at least
quarter after. No alarm had gone off.
Daylight came shortly after five. Supposing someone
wanted to be away from the house while it was still
dark .. . An interesting speculation.
That afternoon I sent a wire, in code, to my home office.
Soderman would find out that I had sent it, and that
coded message was going to worry him.
My feet ached from walking. I went up the stairs to
my room and lay down across the bed. There had to be
an angle, somewhere. I sat up and took off my shoes, but
when I had the left one in my hand, I froze with it there
and stared at the rim of the sole and the space in front of
the heel.
Both were marked with still-damp red mud!
It hit me like an ax. That red mud came from the wet
place around the pump near the jail! Anybody getting
112
water from that pump would get mud on their shoes. On
a rainy day, it would be much worse.
Soderman.
Certainly it might not have been Soderman who
killed Marshall. And yet it could have been.
Ill
It was full dark when I opened my eyes. Groggily, soaked
with perspiration, I climbed off the bed and passed a
shaky hand over my face. My head ached and I felt tired.
Fighting a desire to lie down again, I stripped off my
clothes and had another bath. I dressed in fresh clothing
and slid my gun back into my waistband. Then I walked
along the hall and down the stairs.
The usual gang was in the lobby. Four or five men
loafed at the bar, and one of them was Soderman. He
glanced up when I came down the steps, and he didn't
look friendly. He looked as if he hated my innards. Several
of the townspeople looked at me, but I didn't stop.
Across the street was a small cafe, catering mostly to
tourists. I walked over. I felt better, felt like eating.
A tall teenager waited on me, a girl who had not yet
grown into her lanky body or her large, interested eyes.
When she put the glass of water on my table, she
said, ?There was a woman in here looking for you. Very
pretty, too.?
?Yeah??I was surprised. ?NotMrs. Marshall??
The waitress made a face. ?No, much nicer!?
I said, ?I take it that you don't care for Donna
Marshall??
?She's none of my business. I don't imagine she'll be
here long, now that she has his money.?
?This your home??
?Me and my mother, she owns this place.?
?Father??
?Dead. He was killed in the mine.?
?Cave-in??
?Yes. It happened about ten years ago. They had
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 113
to open a new drift into the mine, and sink a new
shaft. The old one was down in the canyon, east of the
new entrance.?
The coffee was good. So was the steak.
?They never use that old entrance??I asked her.
?Oh, no! It's very dangerous! No one has been in
that way in years. It was tried, but there's a hanging wall
of stone that is all cracked and it might collapse. Nothing
has ever been done about it as they never go that way,
but Jerry Wilson was in partway, and he said he never
saw a worse-looking place. A shout or a sharp sound
might bring the whole thing down. Anyway, the new
part of the mine is west of there and so it doesn't matter.?
That was interesting. Mines weren't new to me, especially
hard rock mines. I'd run a stoper and a liner,
those were drilling rigs, in more than one hole, and had
done my share of timbering and mucking. I knew, too,
that in a town of this size, in mining country, nearly
everybody worked in the mines at one time or another.
A woman was looking for me. That would probably
be the Campbell girl, but whatever she wanted would
have to wait. I had plans. This was going to be my busy
night, and with luck I could wind this case up tighter
than a drum.
With luck.
It was going to take the devil's own luck to help me,
for I was going to stick my neck out, way out.
Weber, the watchman at the mine, was the backbone
of the case against Campbell. Weber had seen torn Marshall
go into the mine. He had seen Campbell go in, and
nobody else had gone in at all. Campbell had motive and
opportunity, and if others had motives, and none had
been brought up, they hadn't had opportunity.
When I thought of what lay ahead, I had a notion to
chuck it. A good night's sleep, the morning bus, and back
to Los Angeles in a matter of hours. Lew Marshall hadn't
told me how long I should stay on the job, only that I
look into it. Well, I had looked into it. I had interviewed
Donna Marshall, talked with the deputy sheriff and the
accused, and I'd examined the situation. Out of that I
114
could make a tight, accurate report that would earn me
my money and look all right to anyone.
What it wouldn't do would be plenty. It would leave
the murderer in the clear, for in my own mind I was
morally certain that Campbell was not guilty. I've always
thought there is no such thing as a perfect crime, there
are just imperfect investigators. Contrary to what many
believe, P.I.'s rarely get to solve crimes, but if I had a shot
at it here, I didn't want myself listed with the imperfect.
Marshall went into the mine. Campbell went in.
Campbell came out, and Marshall was found dead. That
would make sense to any jury.
For me, it wasn't enough. I was always a contrary
sort of a cuss, and when I looked at that sultry babe who
had done duty as Marshall's wife, I began to wonder. She
was sexy, she was lazy, she was untidy, but she had a
body that would have stirred excitement in the veins of
a crutch-using octogenarian.
Moreover, if I had ever looked into the eyes of a
woman who was completely and entirely selfish, it was
Donna Marshall.
Add to that one young, rugged, and handsome
deputy sheriff and you've got trouble. They could have
Campbell. For me, I'd hang my case on the skirts of
Donna Marshall. She was the kind who bred murder and
violence. And unless I had made a serious mistake, she
had Soderman in the palm of her hand.
Or did she? Men like Soderman are not easy to
handle. They live on a hair trigger and they backfire
easily.
Sitting over my coffee, thinking of that, I heard the
screen door slam and glanced up to see Marian Campbell
coming toward me. She must have been hot and
tired, but she looked as neat and lovely as she had when I
first saw her getting on the bus in L.A.
She came right over to my table and sat down, and
then the door opened again and the fat man I'd met
on the bus came in. He glanced at me, then at Marian,
and then he walked to another table and sat down. He
ordered beer.
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 115
?What have you found out??Marian's gray eyes
were wide and beautiful.
?Not much, yet.?It pays to be cautious. After all,
why give her hope when there was no evidence?
?I know he didn't do it! You've got to believe me. Is
there any way I can help??
?Not yet,?I said. Harbater was guzzling his beer. He
looked at me, his sharp eyes probing.
The poor fool wonders if I'm still carrying that gun, I
thought. Busybody if I ever saw one.
Marian Campbell sat there across the table from me,
the picture of unhappiness. Me, I'm a sucker for an unhappy
girl, and I looked up and stuck my neck out all
the way.
?I don't want to raise any hopes,?I said, ?but I
know in my own mind your father is innocent. And if I
can, I'll prove it.?
Her head came up sharply, and the look in her eyes
was an excuse for anything. ?Oh, if you could save him,
I'd do anything for you!?
Why are women so free with promises like that?
The fat man was looking at me, then at the girl. I
wondered what he was thinking, and if he had overheard.
Suddenly, I was willing to bet a nickel he had.
The door slammed open and Soderman came in. He
looked around, then saw me talking to Marian. He came
across the room and sat down at the table, jerking a chair
out with a quick movement and sitting down hard. He
rested those big forearms on the table and stared at me,
his eyes ugly.
?Didn't I tell you to leave town??He spoke harshly,
and it stirred something in me.
I've never hunted trouble, but in a lifetime of
knocking around in rough places, I've had more than my
share. Big guys always aroused something in me. They
made the hair along the back of my neck stiffen like a
strange bulldog would.
?You've been watching too many movies,?I answered.
?I told you I was staying, and I meant that. Until
this case is busted wide open, I am staying.?
116
Now I followed it up by saying too much, and I
knew it, but I was mad. Mad clear through. ?You've arrested
an innocent man, and maybe you know he's innocent,
but I'm going to free him, and brother, when I
do, I'm going to hang a noose around the neck of the
guilty parties!?
The veins in his forehead swelled and I thought he
was coming right across the table at me. He glared for a
moment or two, his big hands on the tabletop, and I sat
there, tipped back a little in my chair, but my feet braced
for quick movement.
Slowly, his face changed and it turned white around
the eyes. He eased back into his chair, relaxing all his
muscles. He was worried as well as mad. I knew then
that I had him. If he had known nothing beyond what he
was supposed to know, if he had been sure Campbell was
guilty and not had some doubts of his own, he'd have
slugged me.
?You're asking for trouble,?he said, looking out
from under his eyebrows at me, ?and you're biting off
more than you can chew.?
?That's possible,?I agreed, ?but so has somebody
else, and what they bit off is going to give them acute
indigestion.?
I shoved my hands down in my pockets. ?Soderman,?
I said, ?you've been a miner. You know enough about
mines to get around in one. Well, I've worked in a few
myself. And,?I added, ?I know something of the history
of this one. Enough to know that Weber's evidence isn't
worth a tinker's damn!?
His eyes flickered a little. ?If you're thinking about
the old shaft, you're wrong. It can't be used.?
?Tried it??I suggested.
He could see where that led, and he let something
come into his eyes that told me he was going to like
taking a poke at me.
?No,?he said. ?But it was abandoned because it
was too dangerous. A man would be a fool to crawl into
that hole. The hanging wall of that big stope needs only a
117
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 117
jar and the whole blamed mountain would come down.
It gives me the creeps even to look in there.?
Knowing what unmaintained tunnels were like, I
could agree with him. It made me sweat to think of it,
and yet I knew then that I was going to sweat some more,
because I was going to try it. If I could get from the old
workings into the new, to the place where Marshall was
killed, then I could establish a reasonable doubt as to
Campbell's guilt.
Soderman shoved back from the table and got up.
When he did, I happened to glance at Harbater sitting
over his beer. His eyes were on Soderman, and in them
was contempt . . . contempt and something more. The
something more was hate.
Why should a stranger hate Soderman?
After a few more words I got up and left Marian,
paid the check and went out.
It was cool and dark in the street, and I turned
toward the hotel, taking my time. Across the way, and on
the side of the ravine, the gallows frame over the shaft of
the Dunhill loomed against the sky. It was too early for
that. I went back to the hotel, up to my room.
Although I turned on the light, I didn't stay there.
Stepping out into the hall, I took a quick gander each
way, then moved down to the door of a room about
twenty feet from my own. The lock was simple for my
pick, and I went in, easing the door shut. The bag was
locked, but a few moments with another pick and it
opened. In the bag I found a pair of coveralls and a
flashlight. Also, there was a small carbide miner's lamp,
and a couple of letters that I glanced at, and some business
cards.
?So??I muttered. ?It's like that, is it, my fat friend??
There was no more time so I snapped the bag shut
and slipped into the empty hall, locked the door, and
returned to my own room. Ernie Harbater would have
some things to explain, and it offered a new angle. I
stretched out on the bed.
When my eyes opened, I was wide awake. A quick
118
glance at my watch told me it was after midnight. Easing
out of bed, I dressed, checked over my gun, and then
picked up a carbide lamp, a more modern model than the
one my neighbor down the hall had with him. For luck, I
dropped a pencil flashlight in my pocket, then another
clip for the rod.
The hall was like a tomb. I listened a moment,
then slipped out and closed the door. At the end of the
hall, I opened the back door and slipped out to the
stairway. Cool air blew across my face. The door shut
after me.
Only one light showed. It was the watchman's shack
at the Dunhill. I turned and started away toward the
ravine and the old workings that the girl in the cafe had
told me about. The trail was overgrown with coarse
grass, and at one point a small slide had blocked it. I
crawled over and went along the trail to the collar of the
old inclined shaft. There was a vague light, reflected off
the nearby rocks from the shack above. It was just
enough to see where I was walking and the shape of
things nearby.
The abandoned hoist house was there, and beyond it
I could see the shaft slanting steeply down. Rusted tracks
were under my feet, and once I stubbed a toe on the end
of a tie.
When I got there, to the collar of the shaft, I stopped.
It had seemed cool, but I was sweating now.
IV
Here, where I stood, there was a level place where waste
rock from the mine had been dumped and smoothed off.
Across the narrow canyon the opposite side loomed up
black against the night, and above it there was a scattering
of bright desert stars. It was still, so still a person
might almost have heard the movement of a bat's wing.
Breeze touched my face gently, drying the perspiration
on my cheeks.
To my left the mine opened, black as death. Nobody
119
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 119
needed to tell me this might be my last look at the stars.
Old mines were something I knew all too well. I knew
the thick, loose dirt of the floor, gray and ancient, untouched
by any breeze, undisturbed by any walking foot.
I knew the pale gray dust that gathers on the side walls of
the drifts and lays in a mantle over the chutes and the
rusted ore cars.
I knew how the ancient timbers crack and groan
with the weight of a mountain on their shoulders, and I
knew how the strain on those timbers grew, how the
hanging walls of the drifts and stopes began to buckle.
Water would seep through, finding cracks and private
ways, weakening the vast weight above. The guts of
the mountain lay there suspended, a gigantic trap for
the unwary.
I walked into the mine entrance. When I had felt my
way along for thirty feet, and the opening was gray light
in back and above me, I put my hand over the reflector of
the carbide lamp and struck sharply to light it, brushing
the tiny wheel against the flint. Flame spurted from the
burner, a long, knifelike jet of flame standing out at least
six inches and hissing comfortably. I turned it down to a
mere two inches and, drawing a deep breath, started
down the steep incline that led into the old workings of
the mine.
When I had gone fifty yards or so, the floor became
level and I passed the first ladder leading upward into a
stope and, beside it, two chutes. Under one of them stood
an ancient, rusted ore car.
A little farther on there were more chutes, and I continued
walking. So far the timbering was in fair shape.
From my few careful inquiries and a study of the map Pd
obtained, I thought I could tell where the troublesome
area began, but when I had gone beyond the last of the
chutes, I realized I need not have worried about that. I
stopped and flashed my light farther ahead; then I knew
what hell was like.
When a vein of ore is discovered off of a mine tunnel,
the miners follow it, hollowing out the richest rock to
form what they call a stope. These man-made caverns
120
are often too large to be supported by timbers and are
the most dangerous areas in a mine . . . especially an
older, unmaintained mine.
The tunnel before me fell away into blackness and
vanished. It was not hard to see what had happened. Evidently,
there had been a stope below the level on which I
stood, and the unreinforced ceiling, or hanging wall, had
caved in. Dead ahead of me the floor of the drift broke
sharply off, and it was a good ten feet to the heaped-up,
broken rock below. I raised my eyes and looked across at
least a hundred feet of open space, lighted weirdly by the
flame, turned up to its highest now.
The roof of the drift above me had been hollowed
out, turning this section of tunnel into another stope,
probably trying to follow the vein of ore from below.
Flashing my light upward, I could vaguely see the
hanging wall of the section ahead, and for the first time
I could appreciate the term. The roof of upper stope
was, literally, hanging.
Great cracks showed, and the rock on either side of
the cracks sagged ominously. Water dripped through and
the whole roof of the huge chamber bulged downward,
waiting, it seemed, for no more than a gesture or a
sudden sound to give way with all the crushing power of
the mountain above it.
How long it had hung that way, I did not know. And
I had to lower myself down to the rubble below and
make my way across it to the tunnel beyond. I could not
see that drift, nor did I know exactly where it was. I only
knew it was there, and if I was to prove my theory, I had
to cross this open stretch alive.
For a moment I stood, listening. There is no soundlessness
such as the silence far under the earth. There is no
dark such as that absolute blackness where there is cornplete
absence of light. Yet here, it was not quite soundless,
for there was something, vague, yet ominously
present. A drip of water so quiet as not to be identified?
A distant trickling of sand? Whatever it was, at times the
mountain seemed to sigh, the earth to move, ever so
slightly, like a restless sleeper.
121
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 121
Putting my lamp down on the lip of the cave-in at my
feet, I lowered myself as far as I could, got my lamp in
one hand, then let go. It was a short drop and I landed
safely. Carefully, trying to forget the threatening bulges
above my head, I began working my way over the
heaped-up boulders and debris, mingled with a few timbers
from smashed chutes, toward the opposite wall.
When I was almost halfway across, something made
me turn and look back. On the lip of the old drift where a
few minutes ago I had stood, there was a light!
Fear came up in my throat like a strangling hand.
Backing away, I watched the light like a bird watches
a snake. I am not a coward, nor yet a brave man. A fight
I always liked, but one thing I knew-I wanted no
fighting here.
Then I saw the gun.
The man, or woman, who held the light had a gun. I
could see the shine of the barrel in the glow from the
flame. I was not afraid of being shot, for a bullet would
mean nothing here. If that pistol was fired in this stope,
neither of us would ever live to tell the story. It would
mean complete and sudden extinction.
Moving back again, I saw the gun lift, and I spoke,
trying to keep my voice low, for any sudden sound might
be all that was needed.
?If you want to live, don't fire that gun. If you do,
we'll both die. Look at the hanging wall.?
The light held still.
?Look at the roof,?I said. ?The top of the stope.?
The light lifted and pointed up, showing those ugly
cracks and the great bulge of rocks.
?If you fire that gun, the whole roof will cave in. It
will take that drift with it.?I was still backing up with
occasional swift glances around as the light allowed
some vague outline of what lay behind me.
My mind was working swiftly as I backed away. I
knew something now, something that had been disturbing
me all day. It was a new idea and, while a puzzling
one, it revealed much and made many things clear.
Whoever it was showed hesitation now. I could al-
122
most feel the mind working, could sense what he or she
must be thinking. Trying to judge what was true and
what not. The person over there wanted, desperately, to
kill me, yet there was an element of danger.
Suddenly, the light went out. Then I heard a grating,
a slide, and a sodden sound. Whoever it was had dropped
to the floor of the stope!
Instantly, I put my own light out.
We were in complete darkness now. Gently, I shifted
a foot. Backing as carefully as I could, I got to the wall. I
wanted the killer, and I was sure in my own mind that the
killer faced me in the stope, yet I wanted no trouble
there. The slightest vibration might bring that hanging
wall down, and I wanted no part of that.
My foot hit the wall behind me. If the drift was
there, it would be above me, probably out of reach. The
muck over which I had been crawling had been slanting
down, carrying me even lower than the original ten feet.
I heard a rock fall, and knew the killer was coming
up on me in the dark. He was closing in.
What did he expect to do? The chances were, he also
had a knife. Sweat poured down my face and ran down
my skin under my shirt. Dust came up in my nostrils. The
air seemed very hot, and very close. I backed up. Then,
suddenly, a cool movement of air touched my cheek.
Keeping it in my face, I edged toward it. I put my
hand out and found emptiness. Feeling around, I found
the arch of the top of a tunnel. The hole was no more
than two feet wide, and chances were the drift was not
over seven or eight feet high. Wedging myself in the hole,
I dropped.
My feet hit first and there was a tiny splash of water.
I got my balance and started rapidly along the drift.
Once, I bumped hard into the wall at a turn, and once
around it I got my light going, but turned it down to a
very feeble glow. Then I ran swiftly along the drift, my
lungs gasping for air.
torn Marshall's body had been discovered at the
bottom of a winze well back in the mine. Calculating my
own descent through the stope, I believed myself to be on
123
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 123
the level where the body had been found. He had been
knocked on the head and dropped down the winze.
Hurrying on through the old workings of the mine, I
came suddenly to some recent timbering. I had just
crawled over a pile of waste that almost filled a crosscut
running from the dead-end drift of the old workings into
the new. In a matter of minutes I had found the winze.
Here it was. Dark stains on the rock were obvious
enough. Once, I thought I heard a sound, and flashed the
light down the drift that ran out the other side of the
air shaft. There was nothing. Kneeling, I began to study
the rocks. It was just a chance I could find something,
some clue.
The tiny splash of water between the ties of the track
jerked me out of a brown study. My lamp hung on the
wall, and I came up fast. I was too slow.
A gigantic fist smashed out of somewhere, and I was
knocked rolling. Lights exploded in my brain and I
rolled over, getting to my knees. Soderman was calmly
hooking his lamp to the wall. He turned then and started
toward me, and I made it to my feet, weaving. He swung,
low and hard, and I caught the punch on my forearm and
swung my right. It caught him on the side of the face but
he kept coming. Toe-to-toe we started to slug it out,
weaving, smashing, swinging, forward and back, splashing
in the water, our bodies looming black and awful in the
glare of the two flickering lights.
There was blood in my mouth and my breath was
coming hard. He closed with me, trying for a headlock,
but I struck him behind the knee and it buckled, sending
him down. I jerked my head free and kicked him in the
ribs. He lunged to his feet and I hit him again, then he
dived for me and I gave him my knee in the face.
Bloody and battered, he lunged in, taking my left
and getting both hands on me. His fingers clamped hard
on my throat and blackness swam up and engulfed me.
Agonizing pains swept over me, and I swung my legs up
high and got one of them across the top of his head,
jerking him back. Then I crossed the other one over his
face and, with all the power that was in them, crushed
124
him back toward the floor. He was on his knees astride
me, and I thought I'd break his back, but he was old at
this game, too, and suddenly he hurled himself back,
giving way to my pressure, and got his legs free.
Both of us came up, bloody and staggering. I swung
one from my heels into his wind. He grunted like a stuck
hog, and I let him have the other one. At that, it took
three of them to bring him down, and I stood there in the
flickering light, gasping to get my breath back.
Then the tunnel swam around me, the floor seemed
to heave, and our lights went out. A moment later there
came a dull boom.
Soderman, on the floor at my feet, came out of it with
a grunt.
?What . . . was that??The words were muffled
through his swollen lips.
Feeling along the wall for my lamp, I let him have it.
?I think they've blown the entrance to this drift.?
Holding the lamp in my left hand, I struck at the reflector
with my palm. On the third strike I got a light.
The flame leaped out, strong and bright.
Soderman was sitting up. His face looked terrible
but his eyes were clear. ?Blown up??The idea got to
him. ?Bottled us in, huh!?That made me think, and I
watched him closely.
He didn't throw a fit or start rushing around or exclaiming,
and I liked that. He got up. Then he stared at
me, frankly puzzled.
He said, ?Who would do it? Why??
?Soderman,?I said, ?you're a good fighter, but
you've got nothing for brains. You and me, we're the
only two people alive who know who killed torn Marshall,
and I'm the only one knows why!?
He stared at me, blinking. Then he got his light and
set it going. He shook his head. ?That ain't reasonable. It
can't be!?
125
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 125
?It is,?I said, ?and it isn't going to do us much good.
If I'm not mistaken, we're bottled up here. Anybody
know you were coming here??
?She did. Nobody else.?
?Nobody knew I was coming, either. That means
nobody is going to start wondering for a while where either
of us are.?
?She wouldn't do that! Why, she-?He was taking
it hard.
?Buddy, Donna Marshall may have preferred you to
her husband, enough to play around a little, anyway, but
there was something she preferred to either of you.?
?What was that? ?He scowled at me, not liking it.
?Money.?
?But how would she figure money??
?This mine is worth dough. Also, torn Marshall had
a hundred thousand in insurance.?
He studied that one over for a while, staring at his
light. Then he started to move. ?Let's have a look.?
Soderman led the way and we slogged along through
the mud and water toward where the main elevator station
should be. Coming up from the old workings as I
did, I had not been through here before, there was more
to that hole than it looked like, and both of us were tired.
Suddenly, after ten minutes or so of walking, our lights
flashed on a slide of rock closing off the drift. He looked
around a little, and his face got grim.
?Oh, they did it right!?he said. ?They did it very
right! This is a hundred yards inside the main drift. The
chances are it caved all the way to the elevator station.
We couldn't dig through that in a month!?
We didn't waste any time talking about it. We turned
around and started back. ?You must have come in
through the big stope,?he said over his shoulder. ?How
was it??
?Nasty,?I said, ?and I'd bet a pretty penny there's
no stope there now. That roof was the snakiest looking
thing I've seen.?
?Roof??he said. ?I thought you were a miner. You
mean, hanging wall.?
126
?Yes,?I said, ?that's what I mean.?The reason
I said it was because I was checking up on him, just
to be sure, and things were clicking into place in my
skull. ?If I get out of this,?I added, ?I'm gonna see
somebody swing!?
We only needed one look. The big stope through
which I'd come a short time before was gone. Debris
bulged into the drift from it, and part of the drift
down which I'd come had caved in. We were shut off,
entombed.
He stood there, staring at me, and he looked sick. I'd
bet a plugged dime I looked sicker.
?Listen,?I said, ?you've worked in this hole. I
haven't. Isn't there anyplace we could get out? An air
shaft? An old prospect hole? Anything??
?No.?He shook his head. ?Looks like we've bought
it, bud.?
I sat down on a boulder and got out my map.
?Let's look this over,?I said. ?If there's an angle,
it's here.?
Over my shoulder, he started to study it with me.
Here, on paper, was a blueprint of the mine. And a cross
section of all the workings, old and new.
We didn't have to study that blueprint long to know
we were bottled up tighter than a Scotchman at a wake.
There had been only two openings to this section of the
mine, and they were plugged. On the other side of the elevator
station there was a series of vent shafts, but they
could just as well have been in China.
?We're sunk!?Soderman said. ?She's fixed us
plenty.?
That blueprint lay there on my knee. ?Hey!?I said.
?Didn't I see a powder locker back down this drift??
?Uh-huh, so what? Do we blow ourselves up??
?Look at this two-twenty drift,?I suggested. ?It
cuts mighty close to the edge of the hill. Supposing we set
up a liner and see what we can do??
He looked at me, then he bent over and turned a
127
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 127
valve on the air pipe. It blasted a sharp, clear stream of
air. ?The compressor's still running.?He looked at me
and then chuckled. ?What have we got to lose??
The two-hundred-twenty-foot drift was higher than
ours but it didn't connect to any of the shafts leading out
of the mine. All the ore from that level was dropped
down chutes to this level to be trammed out. We got a
drill and carried it up into the two twenty and set it up
facing the wall of the drift. Then we rustled some drill
steel. None of it was very sharp, but there was still some
part of an edge on it.
Neither of us was saying a thing. We both knew
what the joker was. There were no figures on that blueprint
to show how much distance there was between the
wall of the drift and the outside. It might be eight feet, it
might be ten, or twenty or fifty. The one figure we needed
wasn't on that blueprint.
We didn't think about that because we didn't want
to. Regardless of our fight, we went into this like a team.
After all, we were miners, even though it had been a time
since either of us had run a machine.
We connected the air hoses and started to work. The
rattle and pound of the drill roared in the closed-in drift.
He bored in with one length of steel, but when he'd
drilled in as far as the steel would go, he didn't change to
a longer bit, he shifted to another hole instead of cornpleting
this one. If need be, we could always load what
we had and blast on chance.
Hour after hour passed. At times, despite the fact
that we were afraid they would shut the main cornpressor
down, we let the air blast freely into the drift,
cooling us and making sure we had breathing air. Then
we would connect the hose again and go back to work.
Nobody ever put in eight holes any faster than we
did. Taking turns, we ran them in as deep as we could,
having an ugly time fighting that dull steel. While he was
working, I combed the mine for more of it, and while I
was working, he brought up some powder and primers
from the store on the level below.
We finally tore our machine down and lugged it out
128
of there. Then we loaded the holes and split the fuses.
Then we got as far away as we could, and waited with
our mouths open for the blast. Maybe that wasn't necessary.
Waiting with our mouths open, I mean, but neither
of us knew what effect the blast would have when both
openings of the mine were sealed.
We heard the thump thump thump of the blasts, and
got up and started in after counting the shots. The air
was still blue with powder smoke, but we moved over
the muck to the face. A nice little crosscut was blasted,
but there was solid rock at the end of it.
Without any talk, we mucked out a space and set up
the liner again. This time he used several bits in the same
hole, and I watched him. Suddenly, the drill leaped
ahead. He just turned and looked at me, and neither of
us needed to say a word. It had gone through!
We ran another hole and then, getting impatient, we
loaded them and came out of the drift again. When the
shots went, we started on the run, and before we had
gone fifty feet we could feel the cool night air on our
faces!
The hole wasn't big, but we got out. Soderman
looked at me.
?We did it, pal! We did it!?he said. Then he added,
?Mister, that's the last time I ever go underground until
they bury me! I mean it!?
Me? I was already walking. I am not a guy who gets
sore very often, but I was sore now, and I had my own
ideas about what to do. My rod was still in my waistband,
and that was where I wanted it.
There were swarms of people around the shaft collar
when we came down the hill. Somebody saw us, and a
yell went up. ?Who set off that powder? Were you in
there??
Neither of us said anything; we saw Donna Marshall
standing there in slacks and a sweater, and her face
looked yellow as yeast. Behind her was a short, fat man
129
 HJ| Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 129
H§with thick thighs and a round, pasty face. When I first
Bj saw him, I'd thought his eyes were cruel, and even now
Kk they looked it, frightened as he was.
Šft Ten feet away from them, I stopped, and the crowd
HM sort of fell back. I turned to Soderman. ?Do it,?I said.
Hf: ?Donna Marshall!?he called out. ?I'm arresting you
H§' for the murder of your husband, torn Marshall!?
Hf Harbater was edgy, and while I'd looked at her, I had
Hf an eye on him, too. When Soderman spoke her name and
HI everyone's eyes shifted, Harbarer's hand jabbed down in
H his pocket and he shot so fast it made me blink. The
m bullet went into the ground between my feet, and beŠ
cause he'd never pulled the gun clear of his pocket, he
Šwas having trouble raising it farther. He tried to jerk it
B out of his coat. I aimed and shot, my bullet breaking his
H kneecap and knocking him down. Then I stepped in,
Hk kicked his hand away, and pulled the gun from his
Hf pocket. He lay on the ground groaning.
We locked them up and called for the doctor. Mrs.
Marshall cursed the deputy like a truck driver, then demanded
a lawyer and went to sit in the corner of her cell.
When we came out, Soderman was scowling at me.
?Now fill me in. Who is this guy??he wanted to know.
?He's the insurance salesman who sold torn Marshall
his policy. I spotted him on the bus coming up
here. He had been reading a magazine on the bus, all
crumpled and one corner torn off the cover. Later, I saw
that magazine at Donna Marshall's, where he had evidently
forgotten it. We probably only missed him by a
few minutes.
?At first, I couldn't figure the guy. Rut I saw some
of his business papers in his room and everything began
to click into place. The only thing that messed me up
was you.?
?Me??Soderman looked around, his neck getting red.
1 ?Well,?I said, ?she's a good-looking babe, and you
I wouldn't be the first guy who got into trouble over one. I
I think torn Marshall bought that gun for you. He was
130
guess we'll never know. That alarm clock set for five was
partly the tipoff. I knew he didn't need it.?I chuckled.
?It must have been tough that last time, under that bed.
How long did you have to stay there??
He scowled at me. ?How did you know that??Then
he grinned sheepishly. ?The alarm didn't go off that
morning, and when I looked out of the window, he was
coming up the hill. There I was in full sight of the whole
town if I tried to leave, so I crawled under the bed, and
that guy stayed there all day long!?
I laughed, and he scowled at me again. ?It ain't
funny!?he said. ?And to think that babe made a sucker
out of me! I thought you were tryin' to frame her to save
the estate for Lew Marshall.?
He rubbed his ear. ?Who do you think actually did
the killing??
?I'm betting on the insurance man. Came in through
that old working and killed Marshall, then got out. He
followed me in there tonight, but I got away. Then he
went back and blasted the tunnel entrance. But that'll be
tough to prove.?
?Oh, no. His pants will prove it. In that old working
there's a streak of limestone, blue lime, and the ore evidently
occurred as replacements of the limestone. In the
new workings the ore mostly occurs with quartz monazite.
There's no limestone at all in the new workings. If
he crawled over those rocks in the big stope, some of that
lime will be in his clothes.?
?Now that's good!?I chuckled. ?I've got more on
Harbater. I frisked his room in the hotel and found some
coveralls he used and a miner's lamp. He probably used
the coveralls the first time he came into the mine. We
could test those too. You know, it would have been
easy,?I added, ?if you hadn't come into it from so many
angles!?
?Coverin' up for a dame,?he said. ?Well, that cures
me! They ain't any good for a man!?
?Some of them are, all right,?I maintained, thinking
of one in particular. ?Some of them are very much all
right.?
131
 ! Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 131
[ I got up and started for the door. It was going to be
'Šnice to see Marian at breakfast and tell her that her fa|
ther was cleared. It was one part of this job I was going
f to like. I was still planning the way I'd tell her when I
i fell asleep.
132
 COAST PATROL
Dense fog blanketed the Siberian coast. It was
cold, damp, and miserable. Turk Madden banked
the Grumman steeply and strained his eyes
toward the fogbound earth.
He could not see anything but the gray cottony thickness.
Occasionally a jagged peak of the Sihote Alins
loomed through the clouds, black and ugly where the
wind had swept the snow away.
It was warm in the cabin of the plane, and glancing
over his shoulder, Turk smiled to see Diakov asleep. The
Ussuri Cossack gunner possessed an amazing ability to
sleep at any time or place. And he never dozed. He was
either instantly asleep or wide-awake. Well, a few more
miles of patrol and they could return to Khabarovsk, to
food and a warm bed.
Turk swung the ship lazily, detecting a rift in the fog.
Then, quite suddenly, he saw the freighter.
She was moored fore and aft, just inside the river
mouth. A freighter of no less than four thousand tons
tied up at a rocky shelf in the mouth of a lonely stream
on a coast that rarely saw anything bigger than a fishing
smack or occasional whaler. Since the war had begun,
133
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 133
even the few Udehe fishermen had gone back up the
coast to colder but safer waters.
Glancing back, he saw Diakov was awake. The big
Cossack's black eyes were alert. ?You see something?
What is it??
?A ship,?Madden said. ?A big freighter, tied up in
the river.?
?No Russian ship would be here,?Diakov said. ?I
think not.?
?I'm going down and have a look-see,?Turk said.
He rolled the plane around in a tight circle, heading upstream.
His sense of direction had always been his
greatest asset. He remembered that river, too. For two
weeks he had been flying over it every day, and before
that at odd times. Upstream there was a wide bend with
a little backwater where he could land . . . with luck.
He landed.
Fog was around them like a shroud. Diakov straightened,
his face pale under the tan. ?Well,?he shrugged, ?I
tell myself it is your life, too, so why should I be afraid?
Nevertheless, I am afraid.?
He leaped ashore and took a turn around a tree with
a line, making the plane fast, then another tree, lashing it
bow and stern. Then he got out skis and checked his rifle.
?How far you think??he asked.
?About three miles.?Turk grinned at him, the smile
making his lean brown face suddenly boyish. ?You stay
here, Muscovite. If I don't come back, you go over the
mountains to Sidatun.?
The Cossack lifted an eyebrow. ?Even a ghost
couldn't cross the Sihote Alins now,?he said. ?We fly
out, or die.?
It would have been simpler to have flown to
Khabarovsk to report the ship, but finding a thread of
river on that coast in a fog like this would be harder now
than finding a Jap in Chungking. This way he could investigate
first and have something definite to report.
A snow-covered forest trail followed the river. An
expert on skis, Turk made good time and in only a matter
134
of minutes stood on the edge of the forest, not a hundred
yards from the ship.
The ladder was down, but the name of the ship was
invisible in the fast-falling snow. Vladivostok, the nearest
Siberian port, was miles away to the south, almost four
hundred miles, in fact. Across the narrow Sea of Japan,
however, were the Japanese islands.
Could it be a raiding party from Japan? An attempted
invasion? It didn't seem likely. In any case, it
was his job to find out. It was a chance he had to take.
Already, falling snow had covered him with a thin
sifting of flakes. Moving carefully, taking every advantage
of flurries of wind that veiled his movement, Turk
crossed to the ship. He had abandoned his skis in the
brush, so when he reached the ladder, he did not hesitate,
but mounted swiftly.
There was no challenge, only the whisper of snow.
The deck was white and still, unbroken by a footprint.
Hesitating, flattened against the bulkhead, he studied the
situation. Something here was radically wrong. It was almost
an hour since he left the plane, and the snow had
begun then, yet there had been no movement on the deck
in that time. Every sense in his body was alert, and he
hesitated, dreading to move, aware that his steps would
be revealed in the snow.
Turk slid his hand inside his leather coat and loosened
his Colt. Then he moved swiftly to the passage that
led to the saloon and the officers' quarters.
The door opened easily under his hand, and he
stepped into the warm passage. The door of the mate's
cabin was on his left, but a glance showed it to be empty.
Before him was the door of the saloon. He opened
the door, pushed it wide with his left hand as his right
gripped the butt of his automatic.
A man lay with his cheek on the table, face toward
the door, arms dangling. Between his shoulder blades
was the protruding haft of a knife. His cap, bearing a
second mate's insignia, lay on the table.
On most freighters the second mate had the twelveto-four
watch. The man had been murdered while eating,
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so apparently he had been killed just before taking over
his watch. It was now nearly four.
Turk stepped back and closed the door gently, then
mounted to the bridge. The wheelhouse was empty, except
for a man lying sprawled on the deck. Even before
he knelt over the body, Turk could see from the way the
head lay that the man's neck was broken. There was a
large welt on his head, and over him, a broken shelf.
Another cap lay nearby. Turk picked it up and
glanced at it. Third Mate. He sized up the situation.
?Nine bucks to a dime,?he muttered thoughtfully, ?somebody
came in the port door. This guy rushed him, and the
guy used judo on him. Threw him into that shelf.?
Grimly, Turk stepped out on the bridge and closed
the door. Visibility was low. He'd be unable to take off
in this. He descended to the captain's deck and tried
the starboard door. It was locked. Rounding the deckhouse,
he tried the port door and it opened gently under
his hand.
The very pretty brunette with the gun in her hand
showed no surprise and no fear. ?Come in,?she said,
?and close the door, or I'll kill you.?
?Thanks,?Turk said, ?it's getting cold out there.?
If she had said she'd shoot him, he wouldn't have been
surprised. But she said ?kill,?and he had a very good
idea she meant it. ?No need to hold that gun on me,?he
said pleasantly, ?unless you're the one who murdered
the mates.?
She stiffened. ?Who . . . murdered??
?Yeah,?he said. ?Somebody played rough around
here. Somebody who uses jujitsu and a knife. They got
the second and third mates.?
?Not Richards? Aaron isn't killed??Her eyes
were wide.
Turk frowned. ?I don't know your pal Richards. I
only know that you've got two less mates than you had,
and I want to know why. I also want to know who you are,
what this ship is doing here, and where the skipper is.?
136
She stared at him suspiciously, making no move to
put the gun down.
?It's all right,?he said, exasperated. ?I'm an
American. I've been flying coast patrol for the Russians
because of the war.?
She hesitated, then decided to believe him. ?This is
the Welleston, out of Boston. My father, Mace Reardon,
was in command. We were bound for Vladivostok with
aviation fuel, machine oil, and M-3 tanks when Pearl
Harbor was bombed. We had trouble with our radio, and
the war had been going on for several days before we heard
of it. Dad took the ship north around Sakhalin Island,
hoping to slip down the Siberian coast to Vladivostok.
?When we got this far, Aaron-I mean Mr. Richards,
the mate-suggested we tie up here and communicate
with Vladivostok to get an escort through the most dangerous
water.?
Madden nodded. ?Not a bad idea. Your Mr. Richards
was smart. But how were you to communicate with
them? Your radio would warn the Japs, and this is an
American ship.?
?We didn't use the radio. Aaron told Sparks to set
out overland for Sidatun.?
?For where}?Turk's eyes narrowed.
?Sidatun. It's several miles back from the coast.
Sparks was good on skis, so he went.?
?And Richards sent him??Turk was beginning to
understand ... or suspect. ?Where's Richards now??
?I don't know.?The girl was frankly puzzled.
?Mutiny broke out, just after Sparks left. My father
was ...?She hesitated, and for the first time her poise
wavered. ?... killed. Then Aaron told me to stay inside
and not to let anyone in but him.?
A breath of cold air on the back of his neck warned
Turk. He turned, letting his gun slide into his hand with
that smooth efficiency that only comes from long familiarity
and practice. He was just a little too fast for the
tall, handsome man who stood in the doorway. ?Hold it,
buddy,?Turk said softly. ?I never like to kill people I
haven't met socially.?
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?Aaron!?the girl cried out sharply. ?I've been so
worried. Where have you been??
Richards ignored her question, his eyes intent, staring
at Turk. He was a bigger man than Turk, which meant
that he was well over six feet and weighed more than
Madden's compact one eighty.
?Who is this man??Richards asked coolly.
?The name is Madden,?Turk replied, studying the
man keenly. ?I'm an American. I run a commercial
airline in the East Indies. Made a long flight up to
Siberia with a special passenger, and then went on patrol
for the Soviet Army of the Far East. Come in and
close that door.?
Richards complied, moving warily and keeping his
hands in sight. He didn't do anything suspicious, but
something told Turk he was to be carefully watched.
Richards faced him again. ?I'm afraid, Tony,?he
said to the girl, ?that anything this man has told you is a
lie. He cannot be on patrol. No plane could possibly land
in this weather.?
?I land planes in all kinds of weather,?Turk said
calmly, ?and what you think or do not think does not
happen to matter in the least. I am an officer of the Soviet
government at the moment, and the cargo of this ship is
the property of that government. The ship is flying the
American flag, and I am a citizen of the United States. I
want to know exactly what has happened on this boat.?
?There was a mutiny,?Richards said coldly, ?a very
minor one. I handled it. Everything is now under control.
We need no help.?
The man was listening for something. Turk remembered
the door behind him was locked, the ports
dogged down. Yet he felt an acute sense of impending
danger.
?I wonder if the second and third mates thought it
was minor??Turk demanded. ?Who murdered them?
Did you??
Richards stiffened, and his eyes widened just a little,
then turned cold and dangerous. ?I think we might ask
the crew about that, or you. You might be a Jap agent.?
138
Turk laughed. ?Yeah, I'd bet a lot of dough one of us
is, and it isn't me. The second mate wasn't murdered by a
stranger or by a crew in mutiny. He was murdered by
someone he knew and trusted.?
?How do you know that??Tony asked sharply.
?Because he was stabbed in the back while eating by
someone he knew was behind him. The third mate was
killed by someone with a knowledge of jujitsu. But he
was expecting trouble.?
?Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,?Richards sneered, his
eyes hard, ?you think you have it all figured out, don't
you? Trying to pin it all on me? Well, I think you're a
renegade, that you haven't any plane, and have no connection
with any government whatsoever.?
Tony Reardon was looking at Turk, her eyes cold.
?Maybe you'd better put up that gun and leave,?she
said. ?Whatever you came here for won't work. I know
Mr. Richards, and now that my father is dead, he is in
command. Your efforts to prejudice me against him
won't do. I've known him for over a year, and he is not
only the captain now, but my fiance.?
Turk grinned. ?Which apparently makes him the
head man around here. All right, darling, suppose you
ask him why he sent Sparks out to die.?
?What do you mean??she demanded.
?You said he sent him to Sidatun to communicate
with the Soviet officials. Sidatun, baby, is not several
miles away, but several hundred, and across a range of
mountains. In this weather even a man who knows the
country couldn't make it.?
?I don't believe it!?Tony said desperately.
Turk was watching Richards. The mate was half
crouched, his eyes malevolent. Madden slipped his hand
inside his coat and tossed a roll on the table. ?Look at
that map, honey.?
There was a sudden step on the deck outside, and a
sound of footsteps on the ladder. Triumphant light
leaped into Richards's eyes at the sound, but Turk
sprang for the door. Richards leaped to intercept him,
139
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 139
swinging even as he sprang. Turk was lunging right into
the path of the blow, and there was no way to avoid it. It
struck him a smashing wallop on the chin and knocked
him staggering into the wall. Even as he fell back, Richards
steadied himself and lifted his gun.
Off balance and helpless, Turk was cold meat, when
Tony caught Richards's arm, jerking it aside. The shot
smashed a picture an inch over Turk's head.
Before the mate could free his gun hand, Turk sprang
close and, grabbing him by the collar, literally jerked him
from his feet, dragging him to the door. Throwing it
open, Turk dumped Richards out at the feet of three startled
Japanese sailors.
Madden drew back swiftly and slammed the door,
turning the key in the lock. Tony Reardon's face was
deathly pale. ?What is it??she asked. ?What's happening?
I don't understand!?
A shout of anger came from outside, and then a
pounding on the door. It was a steel door, and Turk
was unworried.
Her face was strained and Turk could see she was on
the verge of hysteria. She had kept her father's death bottled
up inside her, and now this.
?Hold it, kid,?Turk said kindly. ?You sit down and
take it easy. We'll get out of this. The way I figure it, this
Richards has sold out to someone. Now the Japs have arrived.
Richards must have got in touch with them
somehow.?
He checked his gun. Without doubt they would move
the ship at once. Every minute they stayed was dangerous.
And that meant that unless he could do something
promptly, they would be out on the Sea of Japan
headed for a prison camp or death.
Turk crossed the room in a stride and peered out the
port. A Jap seaman was opening the valves to get steam
into the winch, another had put down his rifle and was
clearing a line that had become fouled with some tackle.
They would be casting off in a matter of minutes.
Tony came up to him. Her eyes were wide, her face
140
tear-stained, but she was composed again. He looked
down at her. ?You've got nerve, kid,?he said, ?and
that's what it's going to take.?
?What are we to do now??she asked simply.
?We've got to get out of here and away,?he said,
?an' there's a good chance we'll get killed trying. They
can't release that line up there, an' don't dare cast off aft
until they do, else they'll have the ship broadside to the
current, an' probably run her aground.
?They will be getting up more steam now. When
they do, the chances are someone will slip ashore an' cut
the line. Then, like it or not, we'll be headed for Japan.?
Turk hesitated. ?I'm going to open that door and
shoot the guard. It doesn't seem like there's many of
them. Then we'll get down that ladder as fast as we can.
The snow will help some. They can't see ten feet beyond
the bow. It will be the last thing they expect, so we got
a chance.?
Tony picked up her gun, her chin firm. ?Okay,
honey,?he said, ?open the door an' follow me. We're
blasting out of here.?
Luck was with them. The guard stood by the rail,
and even as he turned, Madden slashed him on the
temple with the .45. They were halfway to the ladder before
they were seen. A Japanese sailor patrolling the
bridge let out a shout of alarm and threw up his rifle.
Turk spun on his heel and snapped a quick shot at the
man. It lifted the cap from the man's head, and he
dropped out of sight behind the bulwark.
A shot glanced from the deck right ahead of them,
and then Tony was running down the icy ladder. Turk
turned coolly at the head of the ladder and laced the deck
with a pattern of fire. Then he half ran, half slid, down
the ladder. He stopped dead still and slid another clip
into his automatic before he moved, then ran close
alongside the hull.
Glancing back, he saw a sailor leaning out from the
ship to level a rifle, and Turk fired. The man's face blossomed
with crimson and he lost his hold, sliding through
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 141
the rail to fall into the opening between the ship and
the ledge.
Then, from the edge of the woods, a barrage of fire
opened up, sweeping the ship's rail and bridge with a
stream of bullets. Running, gasping for breath, the two
plunged through the last of the snow and stumbled into
the shelter of the forest.
Diakov met them on the edge of the woods, his face
beaming, the CZ light machine gun cradled in his arms.
?Skis here,?he said. ?We better leave quick.?
?What about her??Turk protested. ?She-?
?Skis for her, too.?The Cossack winked broadly. ?I
find a Jap out here on skis. I brought them along ... a
rifle too.?
Turk glanced quickly at the trail to the plane. Obviously,
the Russian had been here some time, for his footprints
were covered over with new snow. He turned at
right angles to the river and started off through the
timber. ?Wrong way,?Diakov protested.
?We'd get there just a few minutes ahead of their
pursuit,?Turk said, ?and not time enough to warm up
the plane and take off. No, we've got to lead them back
in the hills.?
Diakov's eyes lighted. ?In the Sihote Alins? I hope
they all follow us, comrade. We will show them something,
no??
In silence the three struck out through the timber.
Behind them they knew pursuit would be organized. The
Japanese dared not leave when there was a chance that
other planes would catch them before they were far out
at sea.
Turk said nothing as he followed Diakov through
the timber. The big Cossack was a marvel on skis, and it
took only a few minutes for Turk to see that Tony
Reardon was able to muddle along.
?What kind of shape are you in??he asked her.
She smiled for the first time. ?I'll get the hang of it. I
used to do this when I was a kid in upstate New York.
Don't worry about me.?
142
After that it was grim business. There was no chance
of eluding their pursuers, but they had a lead that they
increased after a few miles. Diakov didn't look for easy
going, and as often as possible he led them across bare,
icy spots where the skis left no trail.
After a while Turk stopped. ?You go ahead,?he said
to them. ?I'm going to give these boys something to
worry about.?
The two headed away. He and Diakov in a murmured
conversation had settled on a lonely peak for a
rendezvous, deciding shortly after their start that would
be their destination.
Turk took a limb from a tree and brushed the trail.
The fast-falling snow would fill in the gaps. Then he
walked back over a bare spot, carrying his skis. Down
below, a half mile behind, he saw a knot of men, several
others scattered out behind.
He rested the captured rifle on a branch and
steadied it against his cheek. Allowing for the cold, he
took careful aim, trying the rifle from several positions.
He watched them come closer, then steadied the rifle
and fired.
The group split like magic, and in an instant the trail
was emptied of all but one man. He got up and, carrying
one ski, hobbled into the brush. Taking his time, Turk
fired three times, moving himself. Then slipping on his
skis, he started out at a fast clip.
Shooting through an opening in the trees, he drove
himself down a long slope in long, swift strides, took a
quick turn around the bole of a huge tree, and started up
a long slope through the brush, moving at an angle. Far
below a shot rang out, and he knew he had been sighted,
but he did not stop. Another shot, and then he stopped.
Taking a quick glance back, he threw up his rifle and
fired. One of the men sprang aside.
?Stung him!?Turk muttered. ?Well, that'll keep
'em worried.?
He had gone no more than two miles before he
stopped suddenly. Above him, on the steep side hill
above the vague trail he was following, a huge boulder
143
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Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 143
was poised. Behind it and on up the mountain were several
tree trunks, more rock, and the makings of a small
slide. He halted, studying the situation thoughtfully.
There was a loose collection of rocks under the boulder,
but apparently one stone held the bigger boulder in
place. Using a broken limb, he cleared out some of the
dirt and loose stuff from underneath and experimentally
rocked the boulder back and forth.
Smiling, he continued on. Occasionally he glanced
back, but kept to the trail, the boulder in sight. Twice he
sighted his rifle over his back trail, and finally he halted.
Seating himself on a rock, he waited. From time to
time he stood up and moved around to keep warm.
Then he saw them coming. Slowly, the men began to
wind along the trail below the boulder. Raising his rifle,
he sighted carefully, took a long breath, and let a little
out of his lungs. Then holding the rifle loosely, he
squeezed the trigger.
He fired not at the men themselves, but at the spot
where the rock was holding the slide suspended above
the trail. Nothing happened. He shifted his position a
little and fired again. Immediately there was a terrific
roar, and he saw the slide wipe a black path across the
mountainside.
When he moved on again, it was with the knowledge
that two fewer men followed him.
It was dark when Turk reached the hollow at the
base of the peak. The spot was secluded, and the
path he had taken brought him there only a few minutes
after Diakov and Tony arrived. The Cossack was cutting
dry wood from the underside of a fallen log to build a
fire. When it was burning, they sat around talking in
low tones. There was small chance of pursuit until daybreak,
which was hours away. Traveling even in the
day was not easy. At night, with boulders, ice slides, and
heavy snow laced with fallen trunks, it would be infinitely
more dangerous.
Diakov brewed tea over the fire, and after they had
finished a bar of chocolate that Turk shared among
them, Turk cleared a wider place in the snow and shifted
144
the fire. Then he spread dry leaves from the bottom of a
snow-covered pile over the warm ground where the fire
had been. Tony could hardly keep her eyes open, and an
instant after she touched the ground, she slept. Diakov
and Turk shared watches.
It was just turning gray when Turk awakened. Diakov
was putting fuel on the fire. ?I went back to look,?he
said softly. ?They are three miles back, but a mile and
a half east of us. They have lost our trail and talk
of returning.?
Turk scowled. ?That means we must make the plane
today. The ship won't leave until these fellows return.?
Turk awakened Tony and they hastily slipped on
their skis and hit the trail. It was all downhill now. They
had reached a high elevation and the trees had thinned
out to a few fir, some Siberian larch, and spruce. The
lower reaches along the valleys were covered with dense
forest with few trails. Giant poplars reached toward the
sky, some of them hundreds of years old. Sliding in
among the trees, Turk led the way at a rapid pace. There
was no time now for delay. Whatever was to be done
must be done at once.
There was a chance that, casting about, the Japs
would find their trail, but the risk had to be taken. The
air was still and very cold, but the brisk movement
kept them warm. Several times Turk stopped to study
the back trail, but they moved so rapidly that almost
before they realized it, they shot out of the woods beside
the river.
The Grumman was lying quietly in the backwater,
her wings heavy with snow. Hastily, while Diakov and
Tony brushed the snow away, Turk worked over the twin
motors. After a few choking tries, they kicked off,
roaring into life with a thunder that awakened the still
cold of the taiga.
Tony got into the cabin, and then Diakov cast off.
Instantly, gambling against the Japanese hearing his signals,
Turk began to call the landing field at Khabarovsk.
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 145
He glanced at his watch. Murzin would be on now. He
sent his call out again.
?Madden, Ussuri coast patrol, calling Khabarovsk.
Coast patrol calling Khabarovsk.?
After a minute he heard Murzin. ?Come in, Madden.
Where you been, comrade??
?S.S. Welleston, bound for Vladivostok, tied up in
river mouth south of Nahtohu River. Mutiny aboard.
Situation serious. Come loaded for bear.?
?Stand by, Coast Patrol.?
Turk Madden swung the Grumman around and
headed for the shore. He was at home now. In the air,
flying his specially built amphibian, he was always at
home. For what she was, the ship was fast and maneuverable.
He saw the gray line of the sea and then he was
over it. Glancing down, he saw the freighter. There was
no fog now, and he could see the line of men coming
wearily through the trees from their fruitless chase.
Instantly, he banked, then pushed the stick forward
and sent the ship down in a steep dive, opening up with
the machine guns the Russians had installed. A blur of
snow lifted near the men, and the line melted. He hauled
back on the stick and the Grumman climbed steeply,
then he swung back over the freighter and cleared her
deck with a burst of fire.
Then Diakov was hammering on his back and
pointing. He looked up to see a V of planes coming
toward him about five hundred feet up. Turk's face
turned grim and he climbed even more steeply. The
Grumman went up and up and up, reaching for altitude.
When he looked again, he could see the planes more
closely. Three light bombers all painted with the rising
sun. They were probably there in case the Russians had
brought up a destroyer, or to sink the ship if it looked
like it would get away. After all, it was an American ship.
Madden swung the Grumman around. Stand by,
they said. That meant to keep the situation in hand. One
of the planes was climbing to meet him, and coming up
fast. He had outflown the Japanese before, and could do
it again, but in a ship like this, against a war plane, even
146
 '
146 / Louis L'Amour
the best of flying would have to be nine-tenths luck to
come out alive. He streaked away from the climbing aircraft
and went into a dive over the next lowest bomber.
The fellow swung away, and Turk's first burst of fire
missed. Then he did an Immelmann and came in on the
bomber's tail. His second burst painted a string of holes
along the bomber's fuselage, and he saw the string reach
the pilot. The bomber shot up, suddenly fell off, and
going into a slow falling turn, burst into a bright rose
of flame.
A streak of tracers shot by him, and Turk pulled the
Grumman around, diving straight for the trees and the
low-hanging fog with the other plane after him. The Japanese
was a flier, and with his greater speed was coming
up fast. Turk felt an icy blast of air as Diakov swung
open the roof hatch behind the wing and deployed his
gun mount. The Cossack slammed his machine gun onto
the pivot and opened up as Turk banked the ship steeply,
his wing tip almost grazing the treetops, and roared into
the fog bank. The war plane pulled up slightly, and
Madden's Grumman bucked and pitched through the
mist with prayer the only force keeping him out of the
invisible treetops.
Turk pulled up, into the clear, but the other plane
had swung around and was coming at him from the side.
The big Grumman was in a spot, and Turk banked
around and headed straight for the nearest war plane, his
twin motors wide open and all his guns hammering. The
Japanese held on grimly, and the two planes shot at each
other with terrific force, but in the split second before
they would have come together, the Japanese lost his
nerve and pulled back on his stick. The plane shot up,
and Diakov raked his underside with a wild burst from
his gun. Then he shot on by, and only had Diakov's shout
of triumph to know that he had scored again.
Strangely, the last aircraft was streaking off over the
Sea of Japan and climbing. Turk banked a little and
glanced down to find himself coming in toward the
freighter. A Jap on the shore was desperately trying to
cast off. Turk shoved forward on the stick and opened up
147
 r
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 147
immediately with a burst of fire. The man crumpled,
seeming to come all apart at the seams, and a second
man, rushing for the woods, was caught on the edge of
the raking burst and fell, his body tumbling in a cornplete
somersault.
Turk came around and trimmed back for a hot
landing on the river just before the freighter. The Cossack
sprang ashore with a line, and Turk, leaving him to
make the ship fast, grabbed his automatic and dashed for
the ship.
Richards. The man was still aboard, and he needed
to be apprehended.
Turk reached the top of the ladder just as Richards
stepped out of the amidships house. The man's face
turned livid and, without regard for Turk's gun, sprang
at him. Madden hesitated only a second, then shoved the
gun in his pocket and sprang forward, throwing punches
with both fists.
Richards was not only big, he was tough and powerful.
They grappled and he rolled over and scrambled
free. Both men came up at the same time. Turk started to
close in, but Richards kicked him away, and when Turk
struck out, he caught his arm in a flying mare. Turk relaxed
and went on over in an easy roll, landing on his
feet. He spun around, slipped a fast left, and smashed a
big fist into Richards's stomach. The mate backed up, his
face dark with fury and pain. Turk followed, stabbing a
left to the face, then crossing a jarring right to the chin.
Richards's knees wilted and he almost fell. He lunged
forward, and Turk broke his nose with a driving right
hook. Richards went down, hitting the deck hard.
Aaron Richards scrambled to his feet. Wheeling,
he rushed for the gangway that led to the bank of the
river. He bent over and plucked the large pin that allowed
the gangway to swivel back and forth out of its
hole. As Turk closed on him, Richards turned and swung
the heavy piece of metal. It hit Turk a stunning blow on
the back of his shoulder and knocked him flat on the
deck, his pistol coming loose from its holster and rattling
into the scuppers.
148
By the time Turk had picked himself up, Richards
was stumbling down the ladder and out onto the muddy
ground. When he saw Turk appear at the ship's rail, he
turned and, taking hold of the gangway railing, gave a
mighty heave. The entire assembly, now disconnected at
the top, came loose. Scraping down the side of the hull, it
crashed into the gap between the ship and the riverbank.
The mate took to his heels.
Diakov was returning from scouting the trees, and
Richards straight-armed him like a football player. The
big Russian went down, and Richards disappeared into
the stand of fir along the water. Turk watched as he
picked himself up, but instead of giving chase he limped
toward the Welleston.
?There are still some left, comrade! They've a boat
down the river!?
At that moment a heavy engine roared to life beyond
the trees. Turk ran to the other rail in time to see a Japanese
torpedo boat arc out into the river. She was going all out,
bow high in the water and her stern sunk deep, a cloud of
blue-gray exhaust trailing from her pipes. Within minutes
Aaron Richards would make the inlet, and from there the
open ocean.
Turk backed up, yanked off his low boots and coat
and, vaulting the railing, took a running dive into the icy
water. The height and the cold took his breath away, but
within a dozen powerful strokes he was alongside the
Grumman and scrambling onto the hull. His clasp knife
made quick work of the mooring rope, and then he was
pulling himself into the cockpit and firing the engines.
He flew down the river with the throttles wide open,
leaving Diakov on the bank bellowing encouragement.
As the plane clawed for altitude, Turk struggled out of
his freezing shirt and turned up the mostly ineffective
cabin heater.
As the water deepened, the patches of fog thinned,
and then ahead of him he could see the torpedo boat. She
was shooting across the swells like an arrow, kicking up
blasts of spray and leaving a long wake. Turk put the
plane into a shallow dive. Fast as the Japanese craft was,
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 149
the Grumman came down on it at over a hundred fifty
miles per hour. Turk triggered his forward guns, the
burst cutting the water across the bow.
There were only two men visible on deck-a Japanese
sailor at the helm, and Richards, who was struggling
to pull the cover from the boat's antiaircraft machine
gun. Turk wheeled around and came back, angling in on
the fast gray boat carefully. The man at the wheel had
begun evasive maneuvers, and Turk could tell it was
throwing off Richards's aim; his gun flamed, but it was a
moment before he hit the Grumman, and then the bullets
found only the wing tip.
Turk held his fire as Richards swung his gun, and
then he let go with a long burst just before the traitor
could fire. The steel-jacketed slugs tore up the decking,
forcing Richards to dive for cover, and continued ripping
back and down into the engine compartment. Turk shot
past, barely off the water, then pulled back on the stick,
heading up toward the clouds.
Outside his left-hand window he saw his port engine
stall and die. The drag pulled at the plane, and he leveled
out, trying to compensate with his rudder. He turned the
nose of the plane back toward land and was glancing at
the motor for any signs of bullet damage or fire when the
starboard engine died.
?This could be better!?he muttered to himself.
Grimly, Turk put the ship into a long glide and
aimed for the calm water just inside the bar at the mouth
of the river.
The amphibian set down upon the water smoothly,
and when it came to a halt, Turk turned and flipped on
the two-way radio switch.
?Calling Khabarovsk . . . calling Khabarovsk.
Madden, Coast Patrol. Down at sea off Kumuhu River.
Please send help. Out of petrol.?
?Khabarovsk airdrome answering Madden, Coast
Patrol. Standby.?
Another voice spoke through the radio. ?Diakov
calling from S.S. Welleston. I found the crew tied up. We're
coming to fish you out. Are you all right, comrade??
150
?Okay for now. Go pick up Richards first, no immediate
danger . . . only I wanted to be shipwrecked with a
beautiful dame.?
?Well,?a cool voice said in his ear, ?you're not very
complimentary!?
Turk turned and his jaw dropped. ?Tony! What are
you doing here!?
?I was in the plane, and you just jumped in and took
off, so here I am!?
Turk must have left his mike switched on. ?Comrade
Madden ... do you want to countermand that rescue
order??
Diakov waited for a reply, but there was no sound
but the lapping of water against the hull. The Cossack
had spent three years in the United States and had seen
many movies. He sighed deeply.
151
 THE GRAVEL PIT
Murder had been no part of his plan, yet a more
speculative man would have realized that a
crime is like a lie, and one inevitably begets another,
for the commission of a first crime is like a girl's acceptance
of a first lover-the second always comes easier.
To steal the payroll had seemed absurdly simple, and
Cruzon willingly accepted the risk involved. Had he even
dreamed that his crime would lead to violence, he would
never have taken the first step, for he'd never struck a
man in anger in his life, and only one woman.
But once he accepted the idea of murder, it was
natural that he should think of the gravel pit. In no other
place was a body so likely to lie undiscovered. The pit
had been abandoned long ago, used as a playground by
neighborhood children until the families moved from the
vicinity and left it to the oil wells. Brush had now grown
up around the pit, screening it, hiding it.
Now that the moment of murder approached, Cruzon
waited by the window of his unlighted room, staring into
the rain-wet street, his mouth dry, and a queer, formless
sort of dread running through him.
He had been pleased with the detached way in which
152
he planned the theft. The moment of greatest danger
would be that instant in which he substituted the envelope
he was carrying for the one containing the payroll.
Once the substitution was made, the rest was simple, and
the very casualness of it made the chance of detection
slight. Hence, he had directed every thought to that one
action. The thought that he might be seen and not exposed
never occurred to him.
Yet that was exactly what had happened, and because
of it, he was about to commit a murder.
Eddie Cruzon had been eating lunch at Barnaby's for
over a year. On the day he overheard the conversation,
nothing was further from his thoughts than crime.
?We've used the method for years,?a man beside
him was saying. ?The payroll will be in a manila envelope
on George's desk. George will have the receipt for
you to sign and the guard will be waiting.?
?What about the route??
?Your driver knows that. He was picked out and
given the route not more than ten minutes ago. All
you have to do is sit in the backseat and hold the fifteen
thousand dollars in your lap.?
Fifteen thousand was a lot of money. Cruzon considered
the precautions, and the flaw was immediately apparent:
the time when the payroll lay on George's desk in
the busy office. For Eddie knew the office, having recognized
the men talking. He worked for a parcel delivery
service and had frequently visited the office on business.
With that amount of money, a man could do ... plenty.
Yet, the idea of stealing it did not come until later.
Once his decision was made, the actual crime was as
simple as he'd believed it would be. He merely walked
into the office carrying a duplicate envelope, and seizing
a moment when George was not at his desk, he put down
his envelope and picked up the other. Walking out, his
heart pounding, he mingled with people at the elevator,
and then, in the foyer of the building, stamped and addressed
the envelope to himself and dropped it in a large
mailbox near the door.
153
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 153
It was Saturday morning and there was no delivery
until Monday, so he went back to his work, pretending
to be unconcerned as always. Yet when he finished his
day and was once more in his room, he could scarcely restrain
his exuberance.
Fifteen thousand, and all his\ Standing before the
mirror, he brushed his sleek blond hair and stared triumphantly
at the vistas of wealth that opened before
him. He would go about his work quietly for another
month, and then make an excuse, and quit. After that,
Rio, Havana, Buenos Aires! He was seeing himself immaculately
clad on the terrace of a hotel in Rio when the
phone rang.
?Cruzon??The voice was low, unfamiliar. ?That
was pretty slick! Nobody saw it but me, and I'm not
talking... as long as I can do business with you.?
Shock held him speechless. His lips were numb and
his stomach had gone hollow. He managed the words, ?I
don't know what you're talking about. Who is this??
?You'll know soon enough. The only reason you're
not in jail is because I've kept my mouth shut.?
Eddie Cruzon had stared past the curtain at the
drizzle of falling rain, his mind blank, his whole consciousness
clambering at the walls of fear. ?No reason
why we should have trouble,?the voice continued. ?In
ten minutes, I'll be sitting in the back booth of the coffee
shop on your corner. All I want is my cut.?
Cruzon's lips fumbled for words.
Into the silence the voice said, ?They will pay five
hundred for information. Think that over.?
The man hung up suddenly, and Cruzon stared at
the phone as if hypnotized. Then, slowly, he replaced the
handset on its cradle.
For a long time he remained perfectly still, his mind
a blank. One fact stood isolated in his mind. He must
share the fifteen thousand dollars.
Yet almost at once his mind refused that solution.
He had planned it, he had taken the risk, he would share
it with no one.
154
The answer to that was stark and clear. The unknown,
whoever he was, would inform on him if he
didn't pay up.
He could share his loot, go to prison, or ...
That was when he first thought of murder.
What right had the stranger to force his way into the
affair? Theft was a rough game. If anything happened to
him, it was just his bad luck.
Then he thought of the gravel pit. Only a few weeks
ago he had visited the place, driving out the old road,
now badly washed out and obviously unused. Curiosity
impelled him to stop his car and walk up the grass-grown
path along the fence.
The pit lay in the rough triangle formed by a wide
field of pumping wells, the unused road, and the fence
surrounding a golf course, but far from any of the fairways.
It was screened by low trees and a tangle of thick
brush. There was no evidence that anyone had been near
it in a long time.
His car could be pulled into the brush, and it should
take him no more than ten minutes to walk up to the pit
and come back alone. There was small chance of being
seen. It might be months before the body was found.
Even when the plan was detailed in his mind, something
within him refused to accept it. He, Eddie Cruzon,
was going to kill a man!
Later, looking across at the wide face of the man in
the restaurant, he pretended to accept his entry into the
affair with ease. ?Why not??he said. ?I don't mind a
split.?He leaned over the table, anxious to convince the
man of his sincerity. ?Maybe we can work out something
, else. This job was a cinch.?
II ?It was slick, all right!?The little man with the
round face was frankly admiring. ?Slick as anything I
ever saw! It took me a minute or two to realize what had
I happened, and 1 saw it!?
Eddie had leaned forward. ?The money's cached.
We'll have to hire a car. ...?He had decided not to use
his own.
155
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 155
?I've got a car. Want to go now??The little man was
eager, his eyes bright and avid.
?Not now. I've got a date, and this girl might start
asking questions. Neither of us should do anything out
of the normal. We just act like we always have.?
?That's right. I can see that,?the fellow agreed,
blinking. He was stupid, Cruzon thought, absolutely
stupid! ?When do we go after it??
?Tomorrow night. You drive by and pick me up.
We'll go out where I hid the money, split it two ways,
have a good dinner to celebrate, and go our ways. Meanwhile,
you be thinking. You're in a position to know
about payrolls and can tip me to something else, later.
With this parcel service job, I can go anywhere and never
be noticed.?
Nothing but talk, of course. Cruzon hated the milky
blue eyes and the pasty face. He wanted only to be rid
of him.
When he saw the car roll up before his apartment
house, he felt in his waistband for the short iron bar he
had picked off a junk pile. Then, pulling his hat brim
lower, he walked out the door.
Weber opened the door for him, and Cruzon got in,
striving for a nonchalance he did not feel. He gave directions
and then sank back in the seat. His mouth was dry
and he kept touching his lips with his tongue.
Out of the corners of his eyes, he studied the man beside
him. Weber was shorter than he, and stocky. Once at
the pit, he must kill and kill quickly, for the man would
be suspicious.
They had seen no other car for miles when he motioned
Weber to pull off the road. Weber stared about
suspiciously, uneasily. It was dark here, and gloomy, a
place of slanting rain, wet pavement, and dripping brush.
?You hid it clear out here? What for??
?You think I want it on me? What if they came to
search my place? And where could I hide it where I'd not
be seen??He opened the door and got out into the rain.
?Right up this path,?he invited, ?it isn't far.?
156
Weber was out of the car, but he looked up the path
and shook his head. ?Not me. I'll stay with the car.?
Cruzon hesitated. He had not considered this, being
sure the man would want to be with him. Weber stared
at him, then up the path. Cruzon could almost see suspicion
forming in the man's mind.
?Will you wait, then??he asked irritably. ?I don't
want to be left out here.?
?Don't worry!?Weber's voice was grim. ?And don't
try any tricks. I've got a gun.?
?Who wants to try anything??Cruzon demanded
impatiently. Actually, he was in a panic. What could he
do now?
Weber himself made it easy. ?Go ahead,?he said
shortly, ?and hurry. I'll wait in the car.?He turned to get
back into car, and Cruzon hit him.
He struck hard with his fist, staggering Weber. The
stocky man was fumbling for the gun with one hand
when Cruzon jerked out the iron bar. He struck viciously.
Once . . . twice ... a third time.
And then there was only the softly falling rain, the
dark body at his feet, and the night.
He was panting hoarsely. He must work fast now. ..
fast. Careful to avoid any blood, he lifted the man in a
fireman's carry and started up the path.
Once, when almost halfway, he slipped on the wet
grass and grabbed wildly at a bush, hanging on grimly
until he got his feet under him. When at last he reached
the brink of the pit, he heaved Weber's body over and
stood there, gasping for breath, listening to the slide
of gravel.
Done!
It was all his now! Rain glistened on the stones, and
the pit gaped beneath him, wide and dark. He turned
from it, almost running. Luckily, there was nobody in
sight. He climbed in and released the brake, starting the
car by coasting. An hour later he deserted the car on a
dark and lonely street, then straightened his clothes and
hurried to the corner.
Walking four fast blocks, he boarded a bus and sank
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 157
into a seat near the rear door. When he'd gone a dozen
blocks, he got off and walked another block before
catching a cab.
He was getting into the cab when the driver noticed
his hand. ?What's the matter? Cut yourself??
In a panic, he looked down and saw that his hand
was bloody. Weber's blood? It couldn't be. He'd worn
gloves. He must have scratched his hand afterward, on
the bushes.
?It's nothing,?he said carelessly, ?just a scratch.?
The driver looked at him oddly. ?Where to, mister??
?Down Wilshire, then left.?
Cruzon got out his handkerchief and wiped his
hand. His trousers were wet and he felt dirty. It was a
while before he got home. He stripped off his clothes and
almost fell into bed.
Cruzon awakened with a start. It was broad daylight
and time to dress for work. His mind was startlingly
clear, yet he was appalled at what he'd done.
He had mur- He flinched at the word. He had killed
a man.
He must be careful now. Any move might betray
him. Reviewing his actions of the previous night, he tried
to think of where he might have erred.
He had thrown the iron bar away. He had worn
gloves in the car, and it had been left on a street in a
bad neighborhood. He had taken precautions returning
home. Above all, nobody knew he was acquainted
with Weber.
There was nothing to worry about. He wanted to
drive by the pit and see if any marks had been left, but
knew it might be fatal. He must never go near the
place again.
There was nothing to connect him with the payroll.
When Weber turned up missing, there was a chance they
would believe he had made the switch himself, then
skipped out.
After dressing for work, he took time to carefully
brush the suit he'd worn the previous night. He hurried
out, drove to work, stopping only once, to buy a paper.
158
There was nothing about the missing payroll. That
puzzled and worried him, until he remembered it was
Monday. That must have been in the Sunday paper,
which he'd missed.
At his usual hour, he dropped around to Barnaby's.
He took three papers with him, but waited until he had
his coffee before opening them. A careful search netted
him exactly nothing. There was no comment on the payroll
robbery. Then, the two men whom he'd overheard
came in and sat down near him. Another man came in a
moment later, and Cruzon gasped audibly, turning cold
and stiff.
The newcomer was short, stocky, and had a pale
face. Cruzon almost gasped with relief when he saw the
man was all of ten years older than Weber. The man
carried a newspaper, and sat down one stool away
from him.
Cruzon took off his uniform and cap and smoothed
his blond hair with a shaky hand. No use getting jumpy
whenever he saw a man even built like Weber; there were
lots of them.
He had finished his lunch and was on his second
cup of coffee, and trying so hard to hear what his neighbors
were saying that he'd been prodded twice on
the arm before he realized the stocky man on his other
side was speaking to him. ?How about the sugar??he
asked. Then the fellow grinned knowingly. ?You must
have had a bad night. I had to speak three times before
you heard me.?
Impatiently, Cruzon grabbed the sugar and shoved
it at the man. The fellow took it, his eyes questioning
and curious.
Cruzon got his attention back to the other men just
in time to hear one say, ?... good joke, I'd say. I wonder
who got it??
?Could have been anybody. You've got to hand it to
the boss. He's smart. He puts so many twists in that payroll
delivery, nobody could ever figure it out! I'll bet he
lays awake nights working out angles!?
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 159
?Did Weber come in late? I haven't seen him.?
?Not yet. Say, wouldn't it be funny if he took it?
He's just dopey enough to try something like that!?
They paid their checks and walked out. Cruzon
stared blindly at his coffee. Something was wrong! What
did they mean by saying it was a good joke? He remembered
all they had previously said, about not giving out
the name of the driver or the route until the last minute,
but had there been other precautions? Had . . . could he
have been duped?
His spoon rattled on his cup and the man beside him
grinned. ?You'd better take on a lot of that, friend.
You're in no shape to be driving.?
?Mind your own business, will you??His irritation,
fear, and doubt broke out, his tone made ugly by it.
The fat man's eyes hardened. ?It is my business,
chum.?The man got to his feet and flipped open a
leather case, displaying a detective's badge. The name,
Cruzon noted, was Gallagher. ?We've enough trouble
without you morning-after drivers.?
?Oh . . . I'm sorry, officer.?Get hold of yourself, get
a grip, his subconscious was saying. ?I'll be careful.
Thanks for the warning.?
Hastily, he paid his check and left. When he got into
the truck, he saw the fat man standing by the building,
watching him.
Watching him} But why should he? How could they
be suspicious of him?
For the remainder of the day he drove so carefully he
was almost an hour late in finishing deliveries. He
checked in his truck, then hurried to his car and got in.
Even more carefully, he drove home.
He saw it as soon as he entered the hallway. Restraining
an impulse to seize the envelope and run, he
picked it up and walked to his room. The key rattled in
the lock, and he was trembling when he put the envelope
down on the table and ripped open the flap. He thrust in
his hand, fumbling feverishly for the first packet. He
jerked it out.
160
Newspapers . . . just newspapers cut in the size and
shape of bills!
Desperately, his heart pounding, he dumped the envelope
out on the table and pawed over the packets.
More newspapers.
That was what they meant, then, and the joke was
on him.
On him? Or on Weber?
Only Weber was out of it; Weber was beyond shame
or punishment. Weber was dead, and he had been killed
for a packet of trimmed paper.
But they did not know, they could not know. Weber
could not talk, and that crime, at least, was covered.
Covered completely.
Cruzon dropped into a chair, fighting for sanity and
reason. He must get rid of the envelope and the paper.
That was the first thing. It might be months before they
found Weber's body, and he could be far away by then.
Frightened as he was, he gathered up the papers and,
returning them to the envelope, slipped out to the incinerator
and dumped them in.
Back in his room, he left the light off, then hastily
stripped off his clothes and got into bed. He lay sleepless
for a long, long time, staring out into the shadowed dark.
He was dressing the following morning when he first
noticed his hands. They were red.
Red? Blood on his hands! The blood of . . . ! He
came to his feet, gasping as if ducked in cold water. But
no! That was impossible! There had been no blood on
his hands but his own, that scratch.
The scratch? He opened his hand and stared at it
feverishly; he pawed at it. There was no scratch.
The blood had been Weber's.
And this? But this was not the red of blood, it was
brighter, a flatter red.
Leaving the house, he pulled on his gloves. A good
deal of it had washed away, and there were parts of his
hands it hadn't touched. Most of it was on the palms
and fingers.
161
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 161
All morning he worked hard, moving swiftly, crisply,
efficiently. Anything to keep his mind off Weber, off the
newspapers, off the strange red tinge that stained his
hands. Then, at last, it was lunchtime, and he escaped
his work and went to Barnaby's almost with relief. Even
removing his gloves did not disturb him, and nobody
seemed aware of the red in between his fingers. A thought
crept into his mind. Was it visible only to him?
Cruzon was over his coffee when the two men came
in again. Eddie sipped his coffee and listened feverishly
to the men beside him.
This time they discussed a movie they had seen,
and he fought back his anxiety to leave, and waited,
listening.
The red on his hands, he thought suddenly, might
have come from a package he handled. Something must
have broken inside, and in his preoccupied state, he had
not noticed.
Then Gallagher walked in and dropped onto a stool
beside him. He smiled at Cruzon. ?Not so bad this
morning,?he said. ?You must have slept well??
?Sure,?he agreed, trying to be affable. ?Why not??
?You're lucky. In my business, a man misses plenty
of sleep. Like yesterday evening. We found a body.?
?A body??There was no way they could connect
him with it, even if it was Weber.
?Yeah. Man found a gun alongside the road.?Gallagher
pulled a cheap, nickel-plated revolver from his
pocket. ?Not much account, these guns, but they could
kill a man. Lots of 'em have. The fellow who found this
gun, he brought it to us. We made a routine check, an'
what d'you think? Belongs to a fellow named John
Weber. He bought it a couple of days ago.?
?John Weber??So his name had been John? He had
not known. ?Has it been in the papers??
?No, not yet. Well, anyway, that made us curious. A
man buys a gun, then loses it right away, so we called this
Weber, an' you know what? He'd disappeared! That's
right! Landlady said his room hadn't been slept in, and
162
he hadn't been to work. So we drove out to where this
gun was lost and we scouted around.
?There was an old, washed-out dirt track up a hill
away from the surfaced road. Nobody seemed to have
been up there in a long time, but right up there on the
track, we found the body.?
?Where??Even as the incredulous word escaped
him, he realized his mistake. He took a slow, deep breath
before speaking again. ?But you said nobody had been
there? How could he-?
?That's what we wondered. His head was battered,
but he managed to crawl that far before he died. The
killer had slugged him and dropped him over the rim of
the pit.?
Cruzon was frightened. Inside, he was deathly cold,
and when he moved his tongue, it felt stiff and clumsy.
He wanted to get away; he wanted to be anywhere but
here, listening to that casual, easy voice and feeling those
mild, friendly blue eyes. He glanced hastily at his watch.
?Gosh! I've got to go! I'll be late with my deliveries!?
The detective dismissed his worry with a wave of the
hand. ?No need to rush. I feel like talking, so I'll fix it
with your boss. I'll tell him you were helping me.?
Eddie had a feeling he was being smothered, stifled.
Something . . . everything was wrong.
The gun, for instance. He had never given it a
thought, having been anxious to get away without being
seen. And Weber not dead, but crawling halfway to
the road!
?I won't take much longer,?Gallagher said, ?it
wasn't much of a case.?
?But I should think it would be hard to solve a case
like that. How could you find out who killed him? Or
how he got there??
?That isn't hard. Folks figure the cops are dumb, but
nobody is smart all the time. I ball things up, occasionally,
and sometimes other cops do, but we've got something
that beats them all. We've got an organization,
a system.
163
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 163
?Now take this Weber. It didn't take us long to get
the dope on him. He'd only been in town a year, no outdoor
fellow, he just bowled a little and went to movies.
So what do we figure from that? That it must have been
the killer who knew about the gravel pit. It was an abandoned
pit, unused in years. Not likely Weber would
know about it.
?Meanwhile, we find there's an attempted payroll
robbery where this Weber works. We figure Weber either
did it or knew who did and was killed because of it. That
adds up. So while some of the boys checked on him,
others checked on the gravel pit.?
Gallagher flipped open a notebook. ?It hadn't been
used in eight years. The company found a better source
for gravel, but one of the guys in the department knew
about kids who used to play there. So we started a check
on truck drivers who hauled from there, oil field workers
who knew about it, and the kids.
?The guy who's in the department, he gave us a list.
His name is Ernie Russell.?
Skinny Russell!
?He remembered them all. One was killed on Okinawa.
One's an intern in New York. A girl works down
the street in a coffee shop, and you drive a parcel delivery
truck. Funny, isn't it? How things work out? All of you
scattered, an' now this brings it all back.?
?You . . . you mean that was the same pit where we
used to play??
?Sure, Eddie. An' you know? You're the only one
who might have known Weber. You delivered to that office,
sometimes.?
?I deliver to a lot of offices.?They had nothing on
him. They were surmising, that was all. ?I know few
people in any of them.?
?That's right, but suppose one of them called you??
The placid blue eyes were friendly. ?Suppose one of them
thought he saw you pick up the payroll envelope? Suppose
he wanted a piece of it??
The detective sipped coffee. ?So it begins to add up.
164
Suppose you were called by Weber? Weber was planning
something because he bought that gun Saturday afternoon.
He wanted to be on the safe side. And you knew
about the gravel pit.?
?So what? That isn't even a good circumstantial
case. You can't prove I ever saw Weber.?
?You've got something there. That's going to be
tough unless you admit it.?
He got to his feet. ?I've got to go now. I've done
nothing. I don't want to talk to you.?
?Look, kid.?Gallagher was patient. ?You can tell
me about it now or later. You muffed it, you know, from
beginning to end. We know you met him somewhere, an'
we can find it. Maybe it will take us a week, maybe two
weeks or a month, but we'll find it. We've got you on the
payroll job, an' we'll get you on the killing, too, kid.?
?What do you mean, you've got me on the payroll
job? I had nothing to do with it!?
Gallagher remained patient. ?You've been trying to
keep your hands out of sight. One of my boys was
watching the house when you came out this morning.
He was watching your hands, and he saw the red on
them before you got your gloves on. He called me about
it this morning. We checked your incinerator . . . closely
packed papers have to be stirred around or they won't
burn. Only the edges a little, and they'll brown over.
?That red on your hands? That guy in the payroll office,
he's a funny one. He handles three payrolls a week
for eight years, an' never lost one. He's always got an
angle. The day you stole that envelope, he took the real
payroll over in a taxi, all alone. But the papers you handled,
they had red dye on them . . . hard to wash off.?
Eddie Cruzon sat down on the stool again and stared
blindly down at his coffee. He blinked his eyes, trying to
think. Where was he now? What could he do?
?Another thing. Weber, he lives out in Westwood,
an' he called you from home. It was a toll call, see? We
got a record of it.?
The fool! The miserable fool!
Gallagher got to his feet. ?What do you say, kid?
165
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 165
You haven't a chance. Want to tell us about it? My
wife, she's havin' some friends over, an' I want to get
home early.?
Cruzon stared at his coffee and his jaw trembled. He
was cold, so awfully cold, all the way through. And he
was finished . . . finished because he'd thought. . .
?I'll talk.?His voice was no more than a whisper.
?I'll talk.?
166
 THE MONEY PUNCH
i
The girl in the trench coat and sand-colored beret
was on the sidelines again. She was standing beside
a white-haired man, and as Darby McGraw
crawled through the ropes, she was watching him.
Darby grinned at his second and trainer, Beano
Brown. ?That babe's here again,?he said. ?She must
think I'm okay.?
?She prob'ly comes to see somebody else,?Beano
said without interest. ?Lots of fighters work out here.?
?No, she always looks at me. And why is that, you ask
me? It's because I'm the class of this crowd, that's why.?
?You sure hate yourself,?Beano said. ?These
people seen plenty of fighters.?Beano leaned on the top
rope and looked at Darby with casual eyes. The boy was
built. He had the shoulders, a slim waist and narrow
hips, and he had good hands. A good-looking boy.
?Wait until I get in there with Mink Delano. I'll
show 'em all something then. When I hit 'em with my
right and they don't go down, they do some sure funny
things standing up!?
?You come from an awful small town,?Beano said.
?I can tell that.?
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Darby moved in, feeling for the distance with his
left. He felt good. Sammy Need, the boy he was working
with, slipped inside of Darby's left and landed lightly to
the ribs. Darby kept his right hand cocked. He would
like to throw that right, just once, just to show this girl
what he could do.
He liked Sammy, though, and didn't want to hurt
him. Sammy was fast, and Darby wasn't hitting him very
often, but that meant nothing. He rarely turned loose his
right in workouts, and it was the right that was his money
punch. That right had won his fights out in Jerome, and
those fights had gotten him recommended to Fats Lakey
in L.A.
Fats was his manager. Fats had been a pool hustler
who dropped into Jerome one time and met some of the
guys in the local fight scene. He'd been looking for new
talent, and so the locals had talked McGraw into going
to the coast and looking him up. With nine knockouts
under his belt, Darby was willing.
He felt good today. He liked to train and was in rare
shape. He moved in, and as he worked, he wondered
what that girl would say if she knew he had knocked out
nine men in a row. And no less than six of these in the
first round. Neither Dempsey nor Louis had that many
kayoes in their first nine fights.
When he had worked six rounds, he climbed down
from the ring, scarcely breathing hard. He started for the
table to take some body-bending exercise and deliberately
passed close to the girl. He was within ten feet of
her when he heard her say distinctly, ?Delano will win.
This one can't fight for sour apples.?
Darby stopped, flat-footed, his face flushing red with
sudden anger. Who did she think she was, anyway,
talking him down like that! He started to turn, then
noticed they were paying no attention to him, hadn't noticed
him, in fact, so he wheeled angrily and went on to
the table.
I'll show 'em! he told himself. He was seething inside.
Why, just for that, he'd murder Delano; knock him
out, like the others, in the very first round!
168
Darby McGraw's anger had settled to a grim, bitter
determination by the night he climbed into the ring with
Mink Delano. Fats Lakey was standing behind his corner,
swelling with importance, a long cigar thrust in his fat,
red cheek. He kept talking about ?my boy McGraw?in a
loud voice.
Beano Brown crawled into Darby's corner as
second. He was not excited. Beano had seen too many
of them come and go. He had been seconding fighters
for twenty-two years, and it meant just another sawbuck
to him, or whatever he could get. He was a short black
man with one cauliflowered ear. Tonight he was bored
and tired.
Darby glanced down at the ringside and saw the girl
in the beret. She glanced at him, then looked away
without interest.
?The special event was a better fight than this semifinal
will be,?he heard her say. ?I can't see why they put
this boy in that spot.?
Darby stood up. He was mad clear through. I'll
show her! he told himself viciously. I'll show her! He
wouldn't have minded so much if she hadn't had wide
gray eyes and lovely, soft brown hair. She was, he knew,
almost beautiful.
They went to the center of the ring for their instructions.
The crowd didn't bother him. He was impatient,
anxious to get started and to feel his right fist smashing
against Mink's chin. He'd show this crowd something,
and quick! Why, it took them four hours to bring Al
Baker back to his senses after Baker stopped that right
with his chin!
The bell clanged and he wheeled and went out fast.
Delano was a slim, white, muscled youngster who fought
high on his toes. Darby moved in, feinted swiftly, and
threw his right.
Something smashed him in the body, and then a light
hook clipped him on the chin. He piled in, throwing the
right again, but a fast left made him taste blood and another
snapped home on his temple. Neither punch hurt,
169
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 169
but he was confused. He steadied down and looked at
Mink. The other boy was calm, unruffled.
Darby pawed with his left, but his left wasn't good
for much, he knew. Then he threw his right. Again a
gloved fist smashed him in the ribs. Darby bored in,
landing a light left, but taking a fast one to the mouth.
He threw his right and Mink beat him to it with a beautiful
inside cross that jolted him to his heels. The bell
sounded and he trotted back to his corner.
?Take your time, boy,?Beano said. ?Just take your
time. No hurry.?
Darby McGraw was on his feet before the bell
sounded. He pulled up his trunks and pawed at the resin.
This guy had lasted a whole round with him, and this
after he'd sworn to get him in the first, too. The bell rang
and he lunged from his corner and threw his right, high
and hard.
A fist smashed into his middle, then another one.
He was hit three times before he could get set after
the missed punch. Darby drew back and circled
Mink. Somehow he wasn't hitting Delano. He was suddenly
vastly impatient. Talk about luck! This guy had it.
Darby pawed with his left, then unleashed his right.
Mink moved in and the right curled around his neck. He
smiled at Darby, then smashed two wicked punches to
the body.
Darby was shaken. His anger still burning within
him, he pawed Delano's left out of the way and slammed
a right to the body, but Mink took it going away and the
glove barely touched him.
Darby stepped around, set himself to throw his
right, but Mink sidestepped neatly, taking himself out of
line. Before Darby could change position, a left stabbed
him in the mouth. Darby ducked his head and furrowed
his brow. He'd have to watch this guy. He would have to
be careful.
Delano moved in now, landing three fast left jabs.
Darby fired his right suddenly, but it slid off a slashing
left glove that smashed his lips back into his teeth and set
170
him back on his heels. He took another step back and
suddenly Delano was all over him. Before Darby could
clinch, Mink hit him seven times.
Three times in the following round he tried with his
right. Each time he missed. When the bell ended the
round, he walked wearily back to his corner. He slumped
on the stool. ?Use your left,?Beano told him. ?This boy,
he don't like no lefts. Use a left hook!?
Darby tried, but he had no confidence in that left of
his. It had always been his right that won fights for him.
All he had to do was land that right. One punch and he
could win. Just one. He feinted with his right and threw
his left. It was a poorly executed hook, more of a swing,
but it caught Mink high on the head and knocked him
sprawling on the canvas.
Darby was wild. He ran to a corner and waited,
hands weaving. Delano scrambled to his feet at the count
of nine and Darby went after him with a rush and threw
a roundhouse right. Mink ducked inside of it and grabbed
Darby with both hands.
Wildly, McGraw tore him loose and threw his right
again. But Mink was crafty and slid inside and clinched
once more. Darby could hear someone yelling to use his
left. He tried. He pushed Delano away and cocked his
left, but caught a left and right in the mouth before he
could throw it.
In the last round of the fight he was outboxed cornpletely.
He was tired, but he kept pushing in, kept
throwing his right. He didn't need to look at the referee.
He kept his eyes away from the girl in the trench coat. He
did not want to hear the decision. He knew he had lost
every round.
Fats Lakey was waiting in the dressing room, his fat
face flushed and ugly. ?You bum!?he snarled. ?You poor,
country bum! I thought you were a fighter! Why, this Delano
is only a preliminary boy, a punk, and he made a
monkey out of you! Nine knockouts, but you can't fight!
Not for sour apples, you can't fight!?
That did it. All the rage and frustration and disap-
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 171
pointment boiled over. Darby swung his right. Fats,
seeing his mistake too late, took a quick step back,
enough to break the force of the blow but not enough to
save him. The right smashed against his fat cheek and
Lakey hit the floor on the seat of his pants, blood streaming
from a cut below his eye.
?I'll have you pinched for this!?he screamed. He got
up and backed toward the door. ?I'll get you thrown in
the cooler so fast!?
?No, you won't!?It was the white-haired man who
had sat with the girl in the beret. They were both there.
?I heard it all, Lakey, and if he hadn't clipped you, I
would have. Now beat it!?
Fats Lakey backed away, his eyes ugly. The whitehaired
man had twisted a handkerchief around his fist
and was watching him coolly.
II
When Fats was gone, the girl walked over to Darby.
?Hurt much??
?No,?he said sullenly, keeping his eyes down. ?I
ain't hurt. That Delano couldn't break an egg!?
?Lucky for you he couldn't,?she said coolly. ?He hit
you with everything but the stool.?
Darby's eyes flashed angrily. He was bitter and
ashamed. He wanted no girl such as this to see him
beaten. He had wanted her to see him win.
?He was lucky,?he muttered. ?I had an off night.?
?Oh??Her voice was contemptuous. ?So you're one
of those??
His head came up sharply. ?One of what??he demanded.
?What do you mean??
?One of those fighters who alibi themselves out of
every beating,?she said. ?A fighter who is afraid to
admit he was whipped. You were beaten tonight-you
should be man enough to admit it.?
He pulled his shoelace tighter and pressed his lips
172
into a thin line. He glanced at her feet. She had nice feet
and good legs. Suddenly, memory of the fight flooded
over him. He recalled those wild rights he had thrown
into empty air, the stabbing lefts he had taken in the
mouth, the rights that had battered his ribs. He got to
his feet.
?All right,?he said. ?If you want me to admit it, he
punched my head off. I couldn't hit him. But next time
I'll hit him. Next time I'll knock him out!?
?Not if you fight the way you did tonight,?she said
matter-of-factly. ?Fighting the way you do, you wouldn't
hit him with that right in fifty fights. Whoever told you
you were a fighter??
He glared. ?I won nine fights by knockouts,?he said
defiantly. ?Six in the first round!?
?Against country boys who knew even less about it
than you did, probably. You might make a fighter,?she
admitted, ?but you aren't one now. You can't win fights
with nothing but a right hand.?
?You know all about it,?he sneered. ?What does a
girl know about fighting, anyway??
?My father was Paddy McFadden,?she replied
quietly, ?if you know who he was. My uncle was lightweight
champion of the world. I grew up around better
fighters than you've ever seen.?
He picked up his coat. ?So what??He started for the
door, but feeling a hand on his sleeve, he stopped. The
white-haired man was holding out some money to him.
?I was afraid Lakey might forget to pay you, so I collected
your part of this.?
?Thanks,?Darby snapped. He took the money and
stuffed it into his pocket. He was out the door when he
heard Beano.
?Mr.McGraw??
?Yeah??He was impatient, anxious to be gone.
?Fats, he forgot to give me my sawbuck.?
The Negro's calm face quieted Darby. ?Oh??he
said. ?I'm sorry. Here.?He reached for the money. It
wasn't very much. He took a twenty from the thin packet
173
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 173
of bills and handed it to Beano. ?Here you are, and
thanks. If I'd won, I'd have given you more.?
He ducked out through the door and turned into the
damp street, wet from a light drizzle of rain. Suddenly, he
was ashamed of himself. He shouldn't have talked to the
girl that way. It was only that he had wanted so much to
make a good showing, to impress her, and then he had
lost. It would have been better if he had been knocked
out. It would have been less humiliating than to take the
boxing lesson he'd taken.
With sudden clarity he saw the fight as it must
have looked to others. A husky country boy, wading in
and wasting punches on the air, while a faster, smarter
fighter stepped around him and stuck left hands in
his face.
What would they be saying back home now? He had
told them all he would be back, welterweight champion
of the world. His nine victories had made him sure that
all he needed was a chance at the champion and he could
win. And he'd been beaten by a comparatively unknown
preliminary boxer!
Hours later he stopped at a cheap hotel and got a
room for the night. What was it she had said?
?You can't win fights with nothing but a right hand.?
She had been right, of course, and he'd been a fool.
His few victories had swollen his head until he was too
cocky, too sure of himself. Suddenly, he realized how
long and hard the climb would be, how much he had
to learn.
For a long time he lay awake that night, recalling
those stabbing lefts and the girl's scorn. Yet she'd come
to his dressing room. Why? She had bothered enough
to talk to him. Darby McGraw shook his head. Girls
had always puzzled him. But this one seemed particularly
puzzling.
In the morning he recovered his few possessions at
the hotel where he and Fats had stayed. Fats was gone,
174
leaving the bill for him to pay. He paid it and had twelve
dollars left.
He found Beano Brown leaning against the wall at
Higherman's Gym. ?Beano,?he said hesitantly, ?what
was wrong with my fight last night??
The Negro looked at him, then dug a pack of smokes
from his pocket and shook one into his hand. ?You ain't
got no left,?he said, ?for one thing. Never was no great
fighter without he had a good left hand. You got to learn
to jab.?
?Will you show me how??
Beano lit his smoke. ?You ain't goin' to quit? Well,
maybe I might show you, but why don't you go to Mary
McFadden? She's got a trainin' farm. Inherited it from
her daddy. She's got Dan Faherty out there. Ain't no
better trainer than him.?
?No.?Darby shook his head, digging his hands into
his coat pockets. ?I don't want to go there. I want you to
show me.?
?Well,?Beano said. ?I guess so.?
Darby McGraw was a lean six feet. His best weight
was just over one hundred forty-five, but he was growing
heavier. He had a shock of black, curly hair and a hard,
brown face. The month before he had turned nineteen
years old.
In the three weeks that followed his talk with Beano,
he trained, hour after hour, and his training was mostly
to stand properly, how to shift his feet, how to move forward
and how to retreat.
He eked out a precarious existence with a few labor
jobs and occasional workouts for which he was paid.
He saw nothing of Mary, but occasionally heard of
her. He heard enough to know that she was considered
to be a shrewd judge of fighters. Also, that she had
arranged the training schedules of champions, that there
was little she didn't know about the boxing game, and
that she was only twenty-two.
?Seems like a funny business for a girl,?he told Beano.
The Negro shrugged. ?Maybe. Ain't no business
funny for no girl now. She stuck with what she knowed.
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Her daddy and her uncle, she heard them talkin' fight for
years, talkin' it with ever'body big in business. She
couldn't help but know it. When her daddy was killed,
she kept the trainin' farm. It was a good business, and
Dan Faherty's like a father to her.?
Beano looked at him suddenly. ?Got you a fight. Over
to Justiceville. You go four rounds with Billy Greb.?
Justiceville was a tank town. There were about two
thousand people in the crowd, however. Benny Seaman,
crack middle, was fighting in the main go.
Darby went in at one hundred fifty. He was outweighed
seven pounds. Beano leaned on the top rope and
looked at him.
?You move around, see??he instructed. ?You jab
him. No right hands, see??
?All right,?Darby said.
The bell sounded and he went out fast. Greb came
into him swinging and Darby was tempted. He jabbed.
His left impaled Greb, stopping his charge. Darby jabbed
again. Then he feinted a right and jabbed again. Billy
kept piling in and swinging.
Just before the bell, Greb missed a right and Darby
caught him in the chin with a short left hook. Greb hit
the canvas with his knees. He was still shaken when he
came out for the second. Darby walked in slowly. He
feinted a right and made Greb's knees wobble with another
left. He jabbed twice, working cautiously. Then he
feinted and hooked the left again. Greb's feet shot out
from under him and he hit flat on his face. He never wiggled
during the count.
?With my left!?Darby said, astonished. ?I knocked
him out with my left!?
?Uh-huh. You got two hands,?Beano said. ?But
you got lots of work to do. Lots of work.?
?All right,?Darby said.
The next day he met Mary McFadden on the street. They
recognized each other at the same moment and she
stopped.
176
?Hello,?he said. He felt himself blushing, and
grinned sheepishly.
?Congratulations on your fight. I heard about you
knocking out Bill Greb.?
?It wasn't anything,?he said, ?just a four
round preliminary.?
?All fighters start at the bottom,?she told him.
?I had to find that out,?he admitted. ?It wasn't easy.?
?They want you back there, at Justiceville,?Mary
said. ?Mike McDonald was over at the camp yesterday.
He said they wanted you to fight Marshall Collins.?
?Do you think I should??He looked at her. ?They
tell me you know all about this boxing game.?
?Oh, no!?she said quickly. ?I don't at all.?She looked
up at him. ?Tell Beano not to take Collins. Tell him to insist
on Augie Gordon.?
?But he's a better fighter than Collins!?Darby
exclaimed.
?Yes, he is. Much better. But that isn't the question.
Marshall Collins is very hard to fight. Augie Gordon is
good, but he doesn't take a punch very well. He will outpoint
you for a few rounds, but you'll hit him.?
?All right,?he said.
Mary smiled and held out her hand. ?Why don't you
come out and work with us? We'd like to have you.?
?Can't afford it,?he said. ?Your camp is too expensive.?
?It wouldn't be if you were fighting for us,?she said.
?And Beano thinks you should be out there. He told me
so. He's worried. You're causing him to work, and Beano
likes to take his time about things.?
He grinned. ?Well, maybe. Just to make it easy on
Beano.?He started to turn away. ?Say ...?He hesitated
and felt his face getting red. ?Would you go to a show
with me sometime??
?You're an attractive man, Darby . . . but right now
this is business. Maybe later, if you're still around.?
?I will be,?he stated.
?Then we both have something to look forward to.?
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 177
Darby walked off feeling light-headed, although he
realized that he didn't know what that ?something?was.
Augie Gordon was fast. His left hand was faster
than Mink Delano's. He was shifty, too. Darby pulled his
chin in and began to weave and bob as Beano had been
teaching him. He lost the first round, but there was a
red spot on Gordon's side where Darby had landed four
left hands.
Darby lost the second round, too, but the red spot
on Augie's ribs was bigger and redder, and Gordon was
watching that left. Augie didn't like them downstairs.
Darby started working on Augie's ribs in the third, and
noticed that the other fighter was slower getting away.
The body punches were taking it out of him.
Darby kept it up. He kept it up with drumming
punches through the fourth. In the fifth he walked
out and threw a left at the body, pulled it, and hooked
high and hard for the chin. Augie had jerked his stomach
back and his chin came down to meet Darby's left.
Augie Gordon turned halfway around before he hit
the canvas.
He got up at nine, but he could barely continue.
Remembering how Delano had stepped inside of his
wild right-hand punches when he tried to finish him,
Darby was cautious. He jabbed twice, then let Gordon
see a chance to clinch. Augie moved in, and Darby met
him halfway with a right uppercut that nearly tore his
head off.
Mary was waiting for him when he climbed out of
the ring. ?Your left is getting better all the time,?she said.
Dan Faherty smiled at him. ?Mary says you may be
coming out to the farm. We've got some good boys to
work with out there.?
?All right,?he said, ?I'll come.?He grinned. ?You
two and Beano have made a believer out of me.?
He started for his dressing room feeling better than
he ever had in his life. He had stopped Augie Gordon.
A
178
He had stopped Billy Greb. It looked like he was on his
way. But next he wanted Mink Delano. That was a
black mark on his record and he wanted it wiped clear.
He pushed open the door of his dressing room and
stepped inside.
Fats Lakey was sitting in a chair across the room. He
was smiling, but his little eyes were mean. With him were
two husky, hard-faced men.
?Hello, kid,?Fats said softly. ?Doin' all right, I see.?
Ill
Beano's face was a shade paler and he kept his eyes
down. ?Yeah,?Darby said, ?I'm doing all right. What
do you want??
?Nothin'.?Fats laughed. ?Nothin' at all, right now.
Of course, there's a little matter of some money you owe
me, but we can take that up later.?
?I owe you nothing!?Darby said angrily. He didn't
even start to take off his bandages. ?You never did a
thing for me but try to steal my end of the gate and run
away without paying Beano. The less I see of you, the
better. Now beat it!?
Fats smiled, but his lips were thin. ?I'm not in any
hurry, Darby,?he said. ?When I get ready to go, I'll go.
And don't get tough about it. I owe you a little something
for that punch in the face you gave me, and if you don't
talk mighty quiet, I'll let the boys here work you over.?
Darby pulled his belt tight and slid into his sweater.
He looked from one to the other of Fat's hard-faced cornpanions,
and suddenly he grinned.
?Those mugs??he said, and laughed. ?I could
bounce 'em both without working up a sweat, and then
stack you on top of them.?
One of the men straightened up and his face hardened.
?Punk,?he said, ?I don't think I like you.?
?What do I do??Darby snapped. ?Shudder with
sobs or something??
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 179
?Take it easy, kid!?Fats said harshly. ?Right now I
want to talk business. I happen to know you're going in
there next with Mink Delano.?
?So what??
?So you'll beat him. With that left you've worked
up, you'll beat him. Then they'll have something else for
you. When the right time comes, we can do business, and
when you're ready, you'll do it my way. If you don't, bad
things will happen to you and yours. . . . Get me??
Fats got up, his face smug. ?Wise punks don't get
tough with me, see? You're just a country punk in a big
town. If you want to play our way, you can make some
dough. If you don't act nice, we'll see that you do.?
He turned to go. ?And that McFadden floozy won't
help you none, either.?
Darby dropped one hand on the rubbing table and
vaulted it, starting for Fats. The gambler's face turned
white and he jumped back.
?Take him, boys!?he yelled, his voice thin with fear.
?Gcthim, quickr
The bigger of the two men lunged to stop Darby, and
McGraw uncorked a right hand that clipped him on the
chin and knocked him against the wall with a thud. Then
he leaped for Fats. But he had taken scarcely a step before
something smashed down on his skull from behind.
Great lights exploded in his brain and his knees turned
to rubber.
He started to fall, but blind instinct forced stiffness
into his legs, and he turned. Another blow hit him. He
lashed out with his left, then his right, but suddenly Fats
had sprung on his back, pinioning his arms. What happened
after that, he never knew.
His face felt wet and he struggled to get up, but
somebody was holding him. ?Just relax, son. Everything
will be all right.?The voice was gentle, and he opened
his eyes to see Dan Faherty on his knees beside him. ?Lie
still, kid. You've taken quite a beating,?Faherty said.
?Who was it??
?Fats Lakey and two other guys. Big guys. They had
180
blackjacks. I hit one of 'em, but then Fats jumped on me
and held my arms. I'll kill him for that!?
?No you won't. Forget it,?Faherty said quietly.
?We'll take care of them later.?
A week later he was in Mary McFadden's gym,
taking light exercise. Fats had been right in one thing.
McDonald the promoter wanted him against Mink
Delano in a semifinal. A warrant had been sworn out
against Fats, but he seemed to be nowhere around.
Beano, with a knot on his skull from where he, too, had
been sapped, was working with Darby.
The gym at the McFadden Training Farm was a
vastly different place from the dingy interior of the gym
in the city. Higherman's was old, the equipment worn,
and fighters crowded the floors. This place was bright,
the air was clean, and there were new bags, jump ropes,
and strange exercise equipment that had come all the
way from Germany.
In the week of light work before he moved on to
heavier boxing, Dan Faherty worked with him every day,
showing him new tricks and polishing his punching, his
blocking, and his footwork.
?Balance is the main thing, Darby,?the older man
advised. ?Keep your weight balanced so you can move in
any direction, and always be in position to punch. Footwork
doesn't mean a lot of dancing around. A good
fighter never makes an unnecessary movement. He saves
himself. There's nothing fancy about scientific boxing.
It's simply a hard, cold-blooded system, moving the
fastest and easiest way, punching to get the maximum
force with minimum effort.
?There's no such thing as a fighter born with knowhow.
He has to be a born fighter in that he has to have the
heart and the innate love of the game. Then there is always
a long process of schooling and training. Dempsey
was just a big, husky kid with a right hand until Kearns
got him and taught him how to use a left hook, and DeForest
helped sharpen him up. Joe Louis would still be
working in an automobile plant in Detroit if Jack Blackburn
hadn't spent long months of work with him.?
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 181
Darby McGraw skipped rope, shadowboxed, punched
the light and heavy bags, and worked in the gym with big
men and small men. He learned how to slip and ride
punches, learned how to feint properly, how to make
openings, and how to time his punches correctly.
?That Fats,?Beano told him one night, ?he's a
bad one. A boy I know told me Fats is tied in with
ArtRenke.?
?Renke??Faherty had overheard the remark. ?That's
bad. Renke is one of the biggest and crookedest gamblers
around, and he has a hand in several rackets.?
The arena was full when Darby crawled through the
ropes for his fight with Mink Delano. Since beating him,
Mink had gone on to win five straight fights, two of them
by knockouts. He had beaten Marshall Collins and
Sandy Crocker, two tough middleweights who were
ranked among the best in the area.
The bell sounded and Darby went out fast. He tried
a wild right, and Mink stabbed with the left. But Darby
had been ready for that and he rolled under the left
and smashed a punch to the body. Then he worked
in, jabbed a left and crossed a short right. Mink backed
up and looked him over. The first round was fast, clean,
and even.
The second was the same, except that Mink Delano
forged ahead. He won the round with a flurry of punches
in the final fifteen seconds. The third found Mink
moving fast, his left going all the time. He won that
round and the fourth.
Dan Faherty and Beano were in Darby's corner. Dan
smiled as McGraw sat down. He leaned into the fighter.
?Take him this round,?he said quietly. ?Go out
there and get him. You've let him pile up a lead, get confident.
Now the fun's over. Go get him!?
When the bell sounded, Delano came out briskly
confident. He jabbed a left, but suddenly Darby exploded
into action. He went under the left and slammed
a savage right to the ribs that made the other fighter back
182
up suddenly, but McGraw never let him get set. He
hooked his left hard to the body, and then threw a onetwo
for the head, moving in all the time.
Delano staggered and attempted to clinch, then
whipped out of it and smashed a wicked right to Darby's
jaw. It hurt, and Darby moved in, started to clinch, then
tore loose and smashed both fists to the body. He
stabbed Delano with a left, and then they exchanged
lefts. Fighting viciously, they drove back and forth across
the ring.
Mink straightened up and started a jab. Anxious,
Darby sprang in, smashing two ripping hooks to the
body, then lifting the left to the chin. Delano staggered
and fell back into the ropes, but Darby was set for him
and stopped the spring with a stiff left that flattened
Mink's nose into a blob of blood. Delano sidestepped
and tried to get away, but Darby was after him. He
stabbed a left, another left, then feinted and drilled his
right all the way down the groove.
Mink tried to step inside of it, but took the steaming
punch flush on the point of the chin. He hit the floor flat
on his face.
Faherty was gathering up Darby's gear when he
looked up. ?Fats surrendered to the police,?he said.
?I don't get it. If the assault can be proved, he'll get a
stiff sentence.?
?There's me and Beano,?Darby said. ?We can
prove it. Even if he has three witnesses. Nobody can deny
I got beat up. I've got the doctor's report.?
?Uh-huh.?But Faherty was worried, and Darby
could see it.
He was even more worried at workout time the next day.
?You seen Beano??he asked.
?No. Ain't he here??Darby pulled on his light
punching-bag mitts. ?I saw him last night after the
fights. He went down to Central Avenue, I think.?
?He hasn't come back.?Faherty shrugged. ?He's
probably got a girl down there. He'll be back.
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Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 183
?There's something else,?he went on. ?I've got you
a fight, if you want it. Or rather, Mary got it. A main
event with Benny Barros.?
?Barros??Darby was surprised. ?He's pretty good,
isn't he??
?Uh-huh. He is good. But you've improved, Darby.
You're getting to be almost as good as you thought you
were in the beginning.?
McGraw grinned, running his fingers through his thick
hair. ?Well,?he said, ?that big spar-boy, Tony Duretti,
was hitting me with a left today, so I guess I can get
better. When do I fight him??
?Not for two months,?Faherty advised. ?In the
meantime, we're taking a trip. You're fighting in Toledo,
Detroit, Cleveland, and Chicago. Once every ten days,
then train for Barros.?
?Gosh.?Darby grinned. ?Looks like I'm on my way,
doesn't it??He sobered suddenly. ?I wish Beano would
get back.?
Two days later when the plane took off for Toledo,
Beano Brown was still among the missing. In Toledo,
Darby McGraw, brown as an Indian, his shoulders even
bigger than they had been, and weighing one fifty-seven,
knocked out Gunner Smith in one round. In Detroit he
stopped Sammy White in three and flew on to Cleveland,
where he beat Sam Ratner. Ratner was on the floor four
times, but lasted the fight out by clinching and running.
The tour ended in Chicago with a one-round kayo over
Stob Williams.
The morning after their return to the coast, Darby
rolled out of bed and dug his feet into his slippers. He
shrugged into his robe and walked into the bathroom.
There was a hint of a blue mouse over his right eye, and a
red abrasion on his cheekbone. Other than that, he had
never felt better in his life.
When he had bathed and shaved, he walked outside
to the drive that ended at the main house. Mary's car was
parked under a big tree, where she had left it the night
184
before. She'd been strangely quiet all the way home from
the airport. It was unusual for her to be quiet after one of
his fights, but he had said nothing.
The sun was warm and it felt good. He walked
across the yard, dappled with shadow and sunlight,
toward the car. He dropped his hand on the wheel, the
wheel Mary had been handling the night before, and
stood there, thinking of her. Then he noticed the paper.
He picked it up, idly curious if there was anything in the
sport sheet about his fight with Williams.
He stiffened sharply.
FIGHTER DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT
Beano Brown, former lightweight prizefighter, was
found dead this morning in the wreck of a car on
the Ridge Route. Brown, apparently driving back
to Los Angeles, evidently missed a turn and crashed
into a canyon. He had been dead for several days
when found.
?No,?Darby whispered hoarsely. ?No!?
The screen door slammed, but he did not notice,
staring blindly at the paper. He had known Beano only a
short time, but the Negro had been quiet, unconcerned,
yet caring. In the past few weeks he had come to think of
the man as his best friend. Now he was dead.
?Oh, you found it!?Mary exclaimed. She had come
up behind him with Dan Faherty. ?Oh, Darby, I'm so
sorry! He was such a fine man!?
?Yeah,?Darby replied dully, ?he sure was. He
didn't have a car, either. He didn't have any car at all.
He wouldn't go driving out of town because he
couldn't drive!?
?He couldn't??Dan Faherty demanded. ?Are
you sure??
?Of course I'm sure. You can ask Smoke Dobbins,
his friend. Smoke offered him the use of his car one day,
and Beano told him he couldn't drive.?
Faherty looked worried. ?Without him, it's only
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your unsupported word against Fats Lakey and his two
pals that you were beat up. We'll never make it stick.?
?But a killing??Mary protested. ?Surely they
wouldn't kill a man just to keep him from giving evidence
in a case like that!?
?1 wouldn't think so,?Dan agreed, ?but after all,
they could get five years for assault, or better. And Fats
wouldn't have had any trouble getting someone to help
him with the job, since he's Renke's brother-in-law.?
?He is??Darby scowled. He hadn't known that. He
did know that Fats was vicious. He suddenly recalled
things he had heard Fats brag about, thoughts he had
considered just foolish talk at the time. Now he wasn't
so sure.
?Renke manages Benny Barros,?Dan said suddenly.
?They'll be out to get you this time.?
?It still doesn't seem right,?McGraw persisted.
?Not that they'd kill him. Beano was peculiar, though.
He kept his mouth shut. Maybe there was something else
he knew about Fats or Renke??
IV
Smoke Dobbins was six-feet-four in his sock feet and
weighed one hundred fifty pounds. He was lean and
stooped, a sad-faced Negro who never looked so sad as
when beating some luckless optimist who tried to play
him at pool or craps. Darby McGraw, wearing a gray
herringbone suit and a dark blue tie, found Smoke at the
Elite Bar and Pool Room.
?You know me ??he asked.
Smoke eyed him thoughtfully, warily. ?I reckon I
do,?he said at length. ?You're Darby McGraw, the
middleweight.?
?That's right. Beano Brown was my trainer.?
?He was??Dobbins looked unhappier than ever. He
shook out a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully.
?I liked Beano,?Darby said. ?He was my friend. I
think he was murdered.?He drew a long breath. ?I think
186
he knew something. To be more specific, I think he knew
something about Renke or Fats Lakey.?
?Could be.?Smoke looked at his cigarette. ?Ain't
no good for you to be seen talkin' to me,?he added.
?Plenty of bad niggers around here, most of 'em workin'
for Renke. They'll tell him.?
?I don't care,?Darby snapped. ?Beano was my
friend.?
Smoke threw him a sidelong glance. ?He was just a
colored man, white boy. Just another nigger!?The man's
voice took on a bitter tone.
?He was my friend,?Darby persisted stubbornly.
?If you know anything, tell me. If you're afraid,
forget it.?
?Afraid??Smoke looked at his shoes. ?I reckon
that's just what I am. That Renke, he's a mighty bad
man to trifle with. But,?he added, ?Beano was my
friend, too.?
Smoke looked up and met the fighter's eyes then.
?Me, I don't rightly know from nothin', but I got an
idea. You ever hear of Villa Lopez??
?You mean the bantamweight? The one who died
after his fight with Bobby Bland??
?That's right. That's the one. Well. . .?Smoke took
his hat off and scratched his head without looking at
Darby. ?Beano, he was in Villa's corner that night.
Mugsy Stern was there, too. Mugsy was one of Renke's
boys. At least, he has been ever since.
?Lots of people thought it mighty funny the
way Villa died. He lost on a knockout, but he wouldn't
take no dive. He got weak in the third round and
Bobby knocked him out. Villa went back to his corner
and died.?
?You think Beano knew something??Darby demanded.
He was keeping an eye on a big Negro across
the street. The Negro was talking to a white man who
looked much like one of those with Fats that night when
he got beat up.
?You fightin' Benny Barros, ain't you? What if some-
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 187
thin' happen to you? What if Beano was afraid somethin'
goin' to happen to you? Somethin' like happened to
Villa? Maybe if he thought that, he told Renke if anything
funny happened, he would tell what he knew.?
?The police? Go to the police, you mean??
?No, not to the police.?Smoke smiled. ?Renke, he's
got money with the police, but Villa, he had six brothers.
A couple of them have been with the White Fence Gang.
They good with knives. Good to stay away from. Even
Renke is afraid of the Lopez brothers. If they thought,
even a little thought, that something was smelling in that
fight, there would be trouble for Renke.?
?Where are they??Darby demanded. ?Where could
I find them??
?Don't you go talkin',?Smoke said seriously. ?You
talk an' you sure goin' to start a full-sized war. Those
Lopez brothers, they are from East L.A. and down to San
Pedro. Two of them are fishermen.?
Darby McGraw walked down to the car stop when
he left Smoke. When he glanced around, the tall colored
man was gone. Then he saw two men walking toward
him through the gathering dusk. The big Negro and the
white man who had been with Fats. The man's name was
Griggs. Darby stood very still, his thumbs hooked in his
belt. He looked from one to the other. He was going to
have to be careful of his hands, the fight was only three
days off. There was no sign of the streetcar.
He waited and saw the space between the two men
widening. They were going to take him. They were
spreading out to get him from both sides.
?What you askin' that dinge??Griggs demanded.
?What you talkin' to that Dobbins for??
?Takin' a collection for some flowers for Beano,?
Darby said. ?You want to put some in??
?I don't believe it,?Griggs said. ?I think you need
a lesson. I thought you'd learned before, but I guess
you didn't.?
They were getting close now, and Darby could see
the gleam of a knife in the Negro's hand, held low down
188
at his side. He stepped away from them, stepping back
off the curb. It put Griggs almost in front of him, the big
Negro on his extreme left. Griggs took the bait and
stepped off the high curb to follow Darby.
Instantly, Darby McGraw sprang, and involuntarily,
Griggs tried to step back and tripped over the curb. He
hit the walk in a sitting position, and Darby swung his
right foot and kicked him full on the chin. Griggs's head
went back like his neck was broken and he slumped over
on the ground.
Quick as a cat, Darby wheeled. ?Come on!?he said.
?I'll make you eat that knife!?
?Uh-uh,?Smoke Dobbins grunted, materializing
from behind a signboard. He held the biggest pistol
Darby had ever seen. ?You don't take no chances with
your hands. I'll tend to this boy. I'll handle him.?
The big Negro's face paled as Smoke walked toward
him. ?You drop that frog sticker!?Smoke said. ?Drop it
or I'll bore a hole clear through you!?
The knife rattled on the walk. ?You get goin',
Darby,?Smoke said. ?I'm all right. I got two more boys
comin'. We'll put these two in a freight car, and if they
get out before they get to Pittsburgh, my name ain't
Smoke Dobbins.?
McGraw hesitated, and then as the streetcar rolled
up, he swung aboard. He did not look back. It was the
first time in his life he had ever kicked a man. But Griggs
had once slugged him with a blackjack from behind, and
they had intended to cut him up this time.
Faherty held a watch on him next day, ?You look
good,?he told Darby. ?Just shorten that right a little
more.?He threw the towel around Darby's neck.
?There's a lot of Barros money showing up. Mary's
worried.?
?She needn't be,?Darby said quietly. ?I want this
boy and bad!?
?He's good,?Dan told him, ?he's three times the
man Delano was. He knocked out Ratner. He stopped
Augie Gordon, too. He's probably the best middleweight
on the coast.?
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?All right, so he's good. Maybe I'm better.?
Dan grinned. ?Maybe you are,?he said. ?Maybe
you are, at that!?
Beano Brown had lived in a cheap rooming house near
Central Avenue. Darby knew where it was, and he had a
hunch. Beano had always been secretive about his personal
affairs, but he had told Darby one thing. He kept
a diary.
The night before the fight, Darby borrowed Dan's
car for a drive. He didn't say why, but he knew where he
wanted to go.
It was a shabby frame addition built on the rear
of an old red brick building. He had been there once
many months ago. A man named Chigger Gamble had
lived there with Beano. Chigger was a fry cook in a
restaurant on Pico. He was a big, very fat Negro who
was always perspiring profusely. If there was a diary,
Chigger would know.
Darby parked the car two blocks away near an alley
and walked along the dimly lighted street toward the
side door of the building. If Beano had been murdered,
Darby McGraw was going to see that somebody paid the
price of that murder.
In his young life, Darby had learned the virtue of
loyalty. Beano had given it to him, and if he was right,
and if Smoke was right, Beano had died trying to protect
him. In warning Renke away from him, Beano had possibly
betrayed the fact that he knew the story behind the
death of Villa Lopez. If that theory was correct, and
Darby could think of no reason to doubt it, and if Renke
had bet a lot of money and Villa had refused to go in the
tank, Renke would not hesitate to dope him. Either the
dope had killed him or left him so weakened that Bland's
punches had finished him off.
Mugsy might have handled the dope in the corner,
and somehow Beano had guessed it. Now Beano had died,
and Darby meant to get the evidence if there was any.
The street was dark and the narrow sidewalk was
190
rough and uneven. It ran along a high board fence for a
ways. Behind the fence he could see the rooming house.
There was a little dry grass growing between the sidewalk
and the fence. Darby glanced right and left, then
grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself over. He
was guessing that if Renke and Fats had not already
found Beano's place, they would be hunting it. They
might even be watching it.
The back door opened under his hand and he
stepped into a dank, ill-smelling hallway. Beano and
Chigger had lived on the second floor. He went up the
back stairs and walked along the dimly lit hall to the
door of number twelve.
He tapped lightly, but there was no response. He
tapped again. After waiting for a moment, he dropped
his hand to the knob and opened the door. He stepped
quickly inside, then switched on a fountain-pen type
flashlight.
The small circle of light fell on the dead, staring eyes
of Chigger Gamble!
Quickly, Darby McGraw turned and felt for the light
switch. The lights snapped on.
The room was a shambles of strewn clothing. Darby
touched Chigger's shoulder. The man was still warm.
Darby felt for his pulse. It was still, dead. He started
to turn for the door to get help when he remembered
the diary.
Yet, when he glanced around the room, he despaired
of finding it here. Every conceivable place seemed to
have been searched. A trunk marked with Beano's name
stood open, and in the bottom of it was an open cigar
box. Just such a place as the diary might have been kept.
Darby switched off the light and went out the door.
A shadowy figure flitted from another doorway
nearby and started down the hall on swift feet. ?Hold
it!?Darby called. ?Wait a minute!?
But the man didn't wait, charging down the stairs as
fast as he could run, with Darby right after him. They
wheeled at the landing and the man went out the same
door Darby had come in.
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 191
The fighter lunged after him and was just in time to
see the man throwing himself over the fence. Darby took
the fence with a lunge and went after him. He could see a
car parked in the shadows near a trestle. He lunged
toward the man as he fought to get the door unlocked.
It was Griggs, and the man grabbed wildly at his hip.
Darby dropped one hand to Griggs's right wrist and
slugged him in the stomach with the other. He slugged
him three times, short, wicked blows, then twisted the
right hand away and jerked out the gun, hurling it far out
over the tracks. Then he smashed Griggs's nose with a
left and clipped him with a chopping right to the head.
The big man went down, and Darby bent over him.
In his pocket was a flat, thick book. On the flyleaf it
said, BEANO BROWN, I949.
Darby turned and walked swiftly back to Dan's car.
He was almost there when he saw the other car parked
behind it. Suddenly he wished he had kept the gun.
But when the door of the second car opened, a girl
stepped out and ran toward him. It was Mary.
?Oh, Darby!?she cried. ?Are you all right??
?Sure. Sure, I'm all right,?he said. ?How'd you
get here??
?I followed you,?she said, ?but I didn't see you
leave the car and didn't see which house you went into.
Then I saw the man come over the fence, but I couldn't
tell who was after him. I waited.?
?Let's go,?he said, ?we'd better get out of
here fast.?
They stopped in an all-night restaurant. ?I got it,?
he said. ?Beano Brown's diary. If he knew anything
about the Lopez fight, it'll be in here.?
The waiter stopped by their table, putting down two
glasses of water. He was thin and dark. He looked at
Darby, then at the book in his hand.
?What do you want, Mary??McGraw asked.
?Coffee,?she said. ?Just coffee.?
He opened the diary and started glancing down the
pages while Mary looked over his shoulder. Suddenly,
she squeezed his arm.
I
J
192
?Darby, that waiter's on the telephone!?she whispered
excitedly. ?I think he's talking about us!?
Darby looked up hastily. ?Why should he? What
does he know? Unless . . . unless Renke owns this joint.
No, that's too much of a coincidence to figure we've hit
one of Renke's places by accident.?
?Not one of his places, Darby, but Renke's boss of
the numbers racket here. All these places handle the
slips. All of them have contact with Art Renke. And he
pays off for favors.?
?Finish your coffee,?Darby said. ?We'll save
the diary.?
They started to get up, and the thin, dark man came
around the counter very fast. ?Want some more coffee?
Sure, have some ... on the house.?
?No,?Mary said, ?not now.?
?Come on?the waiter said, smiling, ?it's a
cold night.?
?The lady said no,?Darby told him sharply, then
turned to Mary. ?Let's get out of here!?
They got into their cars and started them fast, but
not fast enough. Just as Mary started to swing her car
out from the curb, an old coupe with a bright metallic
paint job wheeled around the corner and angled across
in front of it. Two men got out and started toward her.
V
Darby left his car door hanging and started back, slipping
on a pair of skintight gloves. Both men were small
and swarthy, and both were dressed in flashy clothes.
They looked at the girl and then at him. One of them had
a gun.
?You gotta book, senor? You give it to me, yes??
?No,?Darby said.
?You better,?the man replied harshly. ?Hurry up
quick now, or I'll shoot!?
The fighter hesitated, his jaw set stubbornly. This
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 193
time there was Mary to think of. ?If we give it to you, do
we both go??
?Si. Yes, of course. You give it up and you go.?
Without a word, Darby handed over the diary. The
two men turned instantly and got in their own car.
?Well,?Mary said, ?that's that. We had it and now
we don't have it. Art Renke is just as much in the clear
as ever.?
Darby was led through the crowd toward the ring. The
place was packed and smoke hung in the air around the
suspended lights. Coming through the stands, Darby
and his second skirted a group of men and ran faceto-face
with Fats Lakey. Fats grinned evilly; sweat ran
down his neck. He wagged his finger. ?Next fight,
country boy . . . next time you fight you're gonna make
me some money.?He laughed and dodged back into the
crowd. Darby knew what that meant. They would try to
make him take a dive. His jaw tightened.
Darby tried to clear his mind. That was in the future,
maybe. Tonight was what he had to worry about now.
Benny Barros was shorter than Darby McGraw
by three inches. He was almost that much wider. He
was certainly more than three inches thicker through
the chest.
He was a puncher and built like one. Portuguese,
and flat-faced, with a thick, heavy chest and powerful
arms. He came into the ring wearing red silk trunks, and
he didn't smile. He never smiled. When they came together
in the center of the ring, he kept his eyes on the
canvas, and then he walked back to his corner and they
slipped off his robe, revealing the dark brown and powerful
muscles of his torso. He looked then, with his flat,
rattlesnake's eyes, at Darby McGraw. Just one look, and
then the bell sounded.
Barros came out fast. He came out with his gloves
cocked for hooking, and he moved right straight in.
Darby's left was a streak that stabbed empty air over
194
Benny's shoulder. Benny's right glove smashed into
McGraw's midsection and Darby turned away, hooking
a left to the head.
Both men were fast. Darby felt the sharpness of
Barros's punches and knew he was in for a rough evening.
He jabbed, then hooked a solid blow to the head,
and Benny blinked. His face seemed to turn a shade
darker and his lips flattened over his mouthpiece.
Between rounds Dan Faherty worked over Darby.
?Renke's here,?he said. ?So is Fats.?
?I know. I wish I had that diary, though,?Darby
said. ?We'd have them both in jail before the night
is over.?
The bell sounded for the second round and he
walked out. Again Barros came in fast. He feinted and
threw a high right that caught Darby on the chin. Darby
took a quick step back and sat down. The crowd came to
its feet with a roar and Darby shook his head, fighting his
way to one knee. The suddenness of it startled him and
he was badly shaken.
He got up at seven and saw Barros coming in fast,
but Darby stabbed a left into Benny's mouth that started
a trickle of blood. However, the punch failed to stop him.
He got to Darby with both hands, blasting a right to the
head and then digging a left into his midsection just
above the belt band on his trunks. Darby jabbed a left
and clipped Barros with a solid right to the head.
Darby stepped away and circled warily, then, as
Barros moved in, he stabbed a left to the face and hooked
sharply with the same left. Barros ducked under it and
came in, slamming away at his body with both hands.
Barros's body was glistening with sweat and his flat,
hard face was taut and brutal under the bright glare
of the light. A thin trickle of blood still came from the
flat-lipped mouth, and Barros slipped another left and
got home a right to Darby's stomach that jerked a gasp
from him.
But Darby stepped in, punching with both hands,
and suddenly Benny's eyes blazed with fury and triumph.
Nobody had ever slugged with Benny Barros and walked
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 I
I
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 195
away under his own power. The two lunged together
and, toe-to-toe, began to slug it out. Darby spread his
feet and walked in, throwing them with both hands, his
heart burning with the fury of the battle, his mind firing
on the smashing power of his fists.
He dropped a right to Benny's jaw that staggered the
shorter man and made him blink, then he took a wicked
left to the head that brought a hot, smoky taste into his
mouth, and the sweat poured down over his body. The
bell clanged, and clanged again and again before they got
them apart.
Benny trotted back to his corner and stood there,
refusing to sit down while he drew in great gulps of air.
The crowd was still roaring when the bell for the third
round sounded and both men rushed out, coming together
in mid-ring with a crash of blows. Darby stabbed
a wicked left to the head that started the blood from
Benny's eye, and Barros ducked, weaved, and bobbed,
hooking with both hands. Benny moved in with a right
that jolted Darby to his heels. McGraw backed away,
shaken, and Benny lunged after him, punching away
with both hands.
Darby crumpled under the attack and hit the canvas,
but then rolled over and came up without a count, and as
Barros charged in for the kill, Darby straightened and
drilled a right down the groove that put the Portuguese
back on his heels. Lunging after him, Darby swung a
wide left that connected and dropped Barros.
Barros took a count of four, then came up and bored
in, landing a left to the body and stopping a left with his
chin. The bell sounded and both men ran back to their
corners. The crowd was a dull roar of sound, and Darby
was so alive and burning with the fierce love of combat
that he could scarcely sit down. He glanced out over the
crowd once and saw two thin, dark men sitting behind
Renke, and one of them was leaning over, speaking
to him.
Then, as the bell rang, he realized one of the men
was the man who had taken the diary. He knew he was
lagging, and he lunged to his feet and sidestepped out of
196
the corner to beat Barros's rush, but Benny was after
him, hooking with both hands. Darby felt blood starting
again from the cut over the eye that Faherty had repaired
between rounds, and he backed up, putting up a hand as
though to wipe it away. Instantly, Barros leaped in, and
that left hand Darby had lifted dropped suddenly in a
chopping blow that laid Benny's brow open just over the
right eye. Barros staggered, then, with an almost animallike
growl of fury, he lunged in close and one of his hooks
stabbed Darby in the vitals like a knife.
He stabbed with a left that missed, then hit Darby
with a wicked right hook, and Darby felt as if he had
been slugged behind the knees with a ball bat. He went
down with lights exploding in his brain like the splitting
of atoms somewhere over the crowd. And then he was
coming up from the canvas, feeling the bite of resin in
his nostrils.
The dull roar that was like the sound of a far-off sea
was the crowd, and he lunged to his feet and saw the
brown, brutal shadow of Barros looming near. He struck
out with a blind instinct and felt his fist hit something
solid. Moving in, he hit by feel, and felt his left sink deep
into Barros's tough, elastic body. He swung three times
at the air before the referee grabbed him and shoved him
toward a corner so that he could begin the count.
Darby got the fog out of his brain as Benny Barros
struggled up at the count of nine. McGraw saw the
brown man weaving before him and started down the
ring toward him. The Portuguese lunged in, throwing
both hands, and Darby lifted him to his tiptoes with a
ripping right uppercut, then caught him with a sweeping
left hook as his heels hit the canvas. Barros stumbled
backward and Darby stepped in, set himself, and fired
his right-the money punch-just like in the old days
when he didn't know any better. Except now it was perfectly
timed and he had the perfect opening. Barros went
over backward, both feet straight out. He hit on his
shoulder blades, rolled over on his face, and lay still.
The referee took a look, then touched him with a
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 197
hand, and walking over, lifted Darby McGraw's right
hand. Darby wobbled to the ropes and stood there hanging
on and looking.
There was a wild turmoil at the ringside that suddenly
thinned out, and he could see men in uniforms
gathered around. Then Dan was leading him to his
corner and Darby shook the fog out of his brain.
?What happened??he demanded, staring at the
knot of policemen. Over the noise of the crowd he could
hear a siren whine to a stop out on the street.
Then one of the policemen stepped aside, and he saw
Art Renke sitting with his head fallen back and the haft
of a knife thrust upward from the hollow of his collarbone.
Beside him, Fats Lakey was white and trembling,
and there was blood all down his face from a slash across
the cheek.
Mary was up in his corner. ?Come on! Let's get you
out of here!?Darby gathered his robe around him and
she led him, his knees weak and uncooperative, back to
the dressing room.
Darby was just getting his focus back when Dan
came bursting through the door. ?It was the White Fence
that got Renke,?he said, ?at least that's what the police
think.?
?The man in the cafe!?Mary gasped. ?He
must have been a friend of the Lopez brothers and
called them!?
?Art Renke's dead,?Dan said. ?They just slashed
Fats for luck. I'd heard they'd been suspicious, and when
Beano was killed, it probably made them more so.
Smoke may have told them something, too.?
Darby McGraw let Dan unlace his gloves. ?Who do
I fight next??he asked.
?You rest for a month now,?Dan said. ?Maybe
more. Then we'll see.?
?Okay,?Darby said, smiling, ?you're the boss.?He
looked at Mary. ?Then we'll have time for a show, won't
we? Or several of them??
She squeezed his still-bandaged hand.
198
?We will,?she promised. ?I'll get the car.?
He stopped her at the dressing-room door and took
her chin in his right hand, tipping her head back.
?Thank you,?he said seriously, ?I'd thank Beano
Brown too, if I could.?He kissed her quickly then, and
headed for the showers.
I
199
SNOW MOUNTAINS
When the burial was complete, she rode with her
son into the hills.
The Go-log tribesmen, sharing her sorrow
for their lost leader, stood aside and allowed her to go.
Lok-sha had been a great man and too young to die.
Only in the eyes of Norba and his followers did she
detect the triumph born of realization that nothing now
stood between him and tribal control. Nothing but a slender
woman, alien to their land, and Kulan, her fourteenyear-old
son.
There was no time to worry now, nor was there time
for grief. If ever they were to escape, it must be at once, for
it was unlikely such opportunity would again offer itself.
It had been fifteen years since the plane in which she
was leaving China crashed in the mountains near Tosun
Nor, killing all on board but herself. Now, as if decreed
by fate, another had come, and this one landed intact.
Shambe had brought the news as Lok-sha lay dying,
for long ago the far-ranging hunter had promised if ever
another plane landed, he would first bring the news
to her.
If the fierce Go-log tribesmen learned of the landing,
200
they would kill the survivors and destroy the plane. To
enter the land of the Go-log was to die.
It was a far land of high, grass plateaus, snowcapped
mountains, and rushing streams. There among the peaks
were born three of the greatest rivers of Asia-the Yellow,
the Yangtze, and the Mekong-and there the Go-log
lived as they had lived since the time of Genghis Khan.
Splendid horsemen and savage fighters, they lived
upon their herds of yaks, fat-tailed sheep, horses, and the
plunder reaped from caravans bound from China to Tibet.
Anna Doone, born on a ranch in Montana, had
taken readily to the hard, nomadic life of the Go-log. She
had come to China to join her father, a medical missionary,
and her uncle, a noted anthropologist. Both
were killed in Kansu by the renegade army that had once
belonged to General Ma. Anna, with two friends, attempted
an escape in an old plane.
Riding now toward this other aircraft, she recalled
the morning when, standing beside her wrecked plane,
she had first watched the Go-log approach. She was familiar
with their reputation for killing interlopers, but
she had a Winchester with a telescopic sight and a .45
caliber Colt revolver.
Despite her fear, she felt a burst of admiration for
their superb horsemanship as they raced over the plain.
Seeing the rifle ready in her hands, they drew up sharply,
and her eyes for the first time looked upon Lok-sha.
Only a little older than her own twenty-one years, he
was a tall man with a lean horseman's build, and he
laughed with pure enjoyment when she lifted the rifle.
She was to remember that laugh for a long time, for the
Go-log were normally a somber people.
Lok-sha had the commanding presence of the born
leader of men, and she realized at once that if she were to
survive, it would be because he wished it.
He spoke sharply in his own tongue, and she replied
in the dialect of Kansu, which fortunately he understood.
?It is a fine weapon,?he said about the rifle.
?I do not wish to use it against the Go-log. I come as
a friend.?
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 201
?The Go-log have no friends.?
A small herd of Tibetan antelope appeared on the
crest of a low ridge some three hundred yards away,
looking curiously toward the crashed plane.
She had used a rifle since she was a child, killing her
first deer when only eleven. Indicating the antelope, she
took careful aim and squeezed off her shot. The antelope
bounded away, but one went to its knees, then rolled
over on its side.
The Go-log shouted with amazement, for accurate
shooting with their old rifles was impossible at that
range. Two of the riders charged off to recover the game,
and she looked into the eyes of the tall rider.
?I have another such rifle, and if we are friends, it
is yours.?
?I could kill you and take them both.?
She returned his look. ?They,?she said, indicating
the others, ?might take it from me. You would not, for
you are a man of honor, and I would kill you even as they
killed me.?
She had no doubt of her position, and her chance of
ever leaving this place was remote. Whatever was done,
she must do herself.
He gestured toward the wreck. ?Get what you wish,
and come with us.?
Her shooting had impressed them, and now her
riding did also, for these were men who lived by riding
and shooting. Lok-sha, a jyabo or king of the Go-log
people, did not kill her. Escape being impossible, she
married him in a Buddhist ceremony, and then to satisfy
some Puritan strain within her, she persuaded Tsan-Po,
the lama, to read over them in Kansu dialect the Christian
ceremony.
Fortunately, the plane had not burned, and from it
she brought ammunition for the rifles, field glasses,
clothing, medicines, and her father's instrument case.
Best of all, she brought the books that had belonged to
her father and uncle.
Having often assisted her father, she understood the
emergency treatment of wounds and rough surgery. This
202
knowledge became a valuable asset and solidified her position
in the community.
As soon as Anna's son was born, she realized the
time would come when, if they were not rescued, he
would become jyabo, so she began a careful record of
migration dates, grass conditions, and rainfall. If it was
in her power, she was going to give him the knowledge to
be the best leader possible.
Lok-sha was sharply interested in all she knew about
the Chinese to the east, and he possessed the imagination
to translate the lessons of history into the practical business
of command and statecraft. The end had come
when his horse, caught on a severe, rocky slope, had
fallen, crushing Lok-sha's chest.
She had been happy in the years she'd spent as his
wife, certainly she was better off than she would have
been as a refugee in the civil war that gripped much of
China or as a prisoner of the Japanese. But as happy as
she had learned to be, as safe as she had finally found
herself, Anna never forgot her home, nor ceased to long
for the day when she might return.
Now, her thoughts were interrupted by Shambe's appearance.
?The plane is nearby,?he said, ?and there are
two men.?
Shambe was not only Lok-sha's best friend, but
leader of the Ku-ts'a, the bodyguard of the jyabo, a carefully
selected band of fighting men.
They rode now, side by side, Kulan, Shambe, and
herself. ?You will leave with the flying men??Shambe
asked. ?And you will take the jyabo also??
Startled, Anna Doone glanced at her son, riding quietly
beside her. Of course . . . what had she been thinking
of? Her son, Kulan, was jyabo now . . . king of six thousand
tents, commander of approximately two thousand
of the most dangerous fighting men in Asia!
But it was ridiculous. He was only fourteen. He
should be in school, thinking about football or baseball.
Yet fourteen among the Go-log was not fourteen among
her own people. Lok-sha, against her bitter protests, had
203
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 203
carried Kulan into battle when he was but six years old,
and during long rides over the grasslands had taught him
what he could of the arts of war and leadership.
Her son jyabo} She wished to see him a doctor, a scientist,
a teacher. It was preposterous to think of him as
king of a savage people in a remote land. Yet deep within
her something asked a question: How important would
baseball be to a boy accustomed to riding a hundred
miles from dawn to dusk, or hunting bighorn sheep
among the highest peaks?
?We shall regret your going,?Shambe said sincerely,
?you have been long among us.?
And she would regret losing him, too, for he had
been a true friend. She said as much, said it quietly
and with sincerity.
When she heard of the plane, her thoughts had
leaped ahead, anticipating their homecoming. She had
taken notes of her experiences and could write a book,
and she could lecture. Kulan was tall and strong and
could receive the education and opportunities that he
had missed.
Yet she had sensed the reproof in Shambe's tone;
Shambe, who had been her husband's supporter in his
troubles with Norba, a chief of a minor division of the
Khang-sar Go-log.
Over their heads the sky was fiercely blue, their
horses' hooves drummed upon the hard, close-cropped
turf. . . there were few clouds. Yes . . . these rides would
be remembered. Nowhere were there mountains like
these, nowhere such skies.
When they came within sight of the plane, the two
men sprang to their feet, gripping their rifles.
She drew up. ?I am Anna Doone, and this is Kulan,
my son.?
The older man strode toward her. ?This is amazing!
The State Department has been trying to locate you and
your family for years! You are the niece of Dr. Ralph
Doone, are you not??
?lam.?
204
?My name is Schwarzkopf. Your uncle and I were
associated during his work at the Merv Oasis.?He glanced
at Shambe, and then at Kulan. ?Your son, you said??
She explained the crashed plane, her marriage to
Lok-sha, his death, and her wish to escape. In turn, they
told her of how they had seized the plane and escaped
from the Communist soldiers. Their landing had been
made with the last of their fuel.
?If there was fuel, would you take us with you??
?Take you? But of course!?Schwarzkopf's eyes
danced with excitement that belied his sixty-odd years.
?What an opportunity! Married to a Go-log chieftain!
So little is known of them, you understand! Their customs,
their beliefs ... we must arrange a grant. I know
just the people who-?
?If it's all the same to you, Doc,?his companion interrupted,
?I'd like to get out of here.?He looked up at
Anna Doone. ?I'm sorry, ma'am, but you mentioned
fuel. Is there some gas around here somewhere??
?Several months ago my husband took a convoy
bound for an airfield in Tibet. He captured several trucks
loaded with gasoline. They are hidden only a few miles
away.?She paused. ?I can drive a truck.?
Yet, first she must return to the Go-log encampment
to meet with the elders and the fighting men of the
Khang-sar. Kulan, as jyabo, must be present. It would be
improper and even dangerous if she were not present
also, for a decision was to be made on the move to new
grazing grounds, and there might also be some question
as to leadership.
The time had come for the Khang-sar to return to
their home in the Yur-tse Mountains, and the thought
brought a pang, for these were the loveliest of mountains,
splendid forests and lakes in a limestone range
near the head of the Yellow River.
?Whatever you do,?she warned, ?you must not
leave the vicinity of the plane. Start no fires, and let no
metal flash in the sun. When our meeting is over, Shambe
will remain near you until Kulan and I can come.?
205
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 205
She swung her horse around. ?If you are found, neither
Kulan nor I could protect you.?
?Kulan??The younger man looked at the boy
in surprise.
Kulan sat straight in the saddle. ?I am now jyabo,?
he replied sternly, ?but our people think all outsiders are
the enemy.?
When they had gone some distance, Kulan sighed
and said, ?The machine is small. There will be no room
forDeba.?
She knew how much he loved the horse. ?No,
Kulan, there will be no room, but you would not wish
to take him away. He was bred to this country, and
loves it.?
?I love it, too,?Kulan replied simply.
She started to speak, but the horse herd was before
them, and beyond were the felt yurts of the camp. Tsan-Po
awaited them before their own tent. With Lok-sha gone,
the Khang-sar Go-log would have need of the old man's
shrewd advice.
Kulan waved a hand at the encampment. ?How
would we live in your country??
?Life is very different there, Kulan, and much easier.
You might become a fine scholar and lead a good life.?
?If that is what you wish. I shall do my best, for both
you and my father have taught me obedience. Only
sometimes,?his voice tightened, ?sometimes I shall think
of Deba and these grasslands, and of Amne Machin, the
God Mountain.?
For the first time she felt doubt, but quickly dismissed
it. Of course she was doing the right thing. Once
he was adjusted to life in civilization, he would be as
happy there. True, he was mature for his years, as boys
were apt to be among the Go-log. It was natural that he
would miss Deba, and he would miss Shambe, as she
would. Shambe had been a second father to him, even as
Tsan-Po had been. The old lama had taught Kulan much
that was beyond her.
Yet, how long she had dreamed of going home! Of
206
luxuriating in a warm tub, conversing in English for
hours on end, and the good, fireside talk of people who
were doing things in the larger world of art, science, and
scholarship. She longed for a life where she did not have
to live with the fear that her son might die from something
as silly as a tooth infection or as serious as the
bullet from the rifle of a Communist soldier.
She was thirty-six, soon to be thirty-seven, and if she
ever wanted a relationship with another man, it could
not be here, where she had once been the wife of a king.
Nor could she wait for too many years after the rough
life on the steppes, a life that had been good to her so far,
but was bound to leave her a wind-burned and arthritic
old woman.
What Dr. Schwarzkopf had said was true. Her experience
was unique. A book might sell. . . she could make
a contribution to anthropology, and even to geographical
knowledge. As for Kulan, he would do well in America.
He was tall and wide-shouldered, and would be a handsome
man with his olive skin, his dark, curly hair and
truly magnificent dark eyes. There was a touch of the exotic
about him that was romantic, and at fourteen he was
already stronger than most men.
As she entered the yurt, she sensed trouble in the air.
Shambe was beside her, but when had he not been present
when she needed him?
All of the Khang-sar Go-log chieftains were there.
Tsemba was the chief of two hundred tents and an important
man whose opinion counted for much. Beside
him were old Kunza, Gelak, and of course, Norba.
Norba was a towering big man with one muscular
shoulder bare, as was the custom, his broad-bladed
sword slung in its scabbard between his shoulder blades.
His coterie of followers was close around him, confident
now that Lok-sha was dead.
Norba had both hated and feared Lok-sha, but had
no heart for a fight with the jyabo. Yet had Lok-sha left
no heir, Norba would have become chief.
207
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 207
The impending shift to new grazing grounds promised
trouble. A faction of the Khang-sar led by Norba
wished to go to Tosun Nor, but Lok-sha had decided,
under the present circumstances, it was better to graze
far from the caravan trails and let a season go by without
raids. The new soldiers from the east were not the undisciplined
rabble of old. Something was afoot in China
proper, and Lok-sha had thought it best to gather more
information before testing fate. Moreover, there had
been rumors of serious drought around Tosun Nor, and
drought meant losses from the herds.
She seated herself beside Kulan, with Tsan-Po beside
her, and Shambe seated on the other side of her son.
Norba had moved to take the seat of jyabo, but Kulan
was before him. Norba's face flushed angrily when he
saw the boy take the seat where he wished to sit.
?Move, boy. Go play with the children.?
Kulan sat very straight. ?Unless it is decided
otherwise, I am jyabo,?he replied. ?Until then, take
your place.?
For an instant there was utter stillness, then a mutter
from the followers of Norba, but Kulan ignored
them. Glancing at her son, Anna Doone was astonished.
Truly, he looked every inch the young king. There was
strength in him, of that there would be no doubt,
strength and courage.
Norba hesitated, then reluctantly took a seat. Anna
could see his repressed fury and knew there was trouble
to come. It was well that they were leaving. The thought
of escape from all this sent a little tremor of excitement
through her, excitement tinged with relief.
The yurt filled and the air was stifling. Anna studied
the faces of the chieftains, but they were expressionless.
Would they follow Kulan, or would they demand an
older, more experienced leader?
Tsan-Po whispered to her that most of those within
the tent were supporters of Norba, and Anna Doone felt
inside her coat for the pistol she was never without.
Their very lives might depend on the selection of
Kulan as jyabo, for if Norba were able to take power, he
208
would at once seek to rid himself of his rival. It would
not be without precedence if Norba attempted to kill
Kulan here, now. Her hand on her pistol, Anna suddenly
knew that if Norba even moved toward her son, she
would kill him.
She accepted some tea, drinking from a bowl that
had come to Tibet from India in the dower of a princess,
more than a thousand years before. In those years, Tibet
had controlled most of western China, as well as part of
India and Kashmir.
Abruptly, without waiting for the others to assemble,
Norba declared himself. ?Tomorrow,?he said, ?we will
move to Tosun Nor to pasture upon the old lands.?
There was silence as he looked around the yurt. That
silence held for a slow minute, and then Kulan said
one word.
?No.?
The word was definite, the tone clear, the
challenge accepted.
Norba's face flushed with anger, but Kulan spoke before
Norba could frame a word.
?There is drought at Tosun Nor. The grass lies
yellow and dead, the air is filled with dust. The beds of
streams are cracked earth. We must go to the mountains,
to the Yur-tse.?
Again Norba prepared to speak, but Kulan interrupted.
?My father is dead, but I am my father's son. We
rode upon the high grass together and he taught me what
I must do.?
For the first time, he looked at Norba. ?You are
deba of two hundred tents. You may ride with us or go to
Tosun Nor. I would advise you to come with us.?
Norba looked around at his followers. ?We are men,
and not to be led by a boy. It is I who shall lead the
Khang-sar. When you are of an age to lead,?he added
slyly, ?you may lead.?
Tsan-Po spoke. ?The boy is his father's son. Leadership
falls upon him.?
Norba got to his feet. ?Enough! I say that I shall
lead. I say it, and my men say it.?
209
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 209
Kulan arose, and Shambe and Anna arose with him.
Anna held her gun in her hand. ?The Ku-ts'a stand
without,?Shambe said, ?and they follow Kulan . . . Unless
all the chieftains say otherwise.?
Norba's lips flattened against his big teeth, and for
an instant Anna thought he would strike Kulan despite
the fact that the bodyguards surrounded the tent. The
Ku-ts'a numbered fifty-eight chosen men, the hereditary
guard of the jyabo. Norba had not expected the Ku-ts'a.
With the jyabo dead, he had believed they would accept
the situation.
He slammed his sword back into its scabbard. ?We
will go to Tosun Nor,?he said. ?You are fools.?
?Go, if you will,?Kulan replied, ?and those who
survive are welcome to return. Our herds will be fat
upon the long grass of the limestone mountains.?
With a pang, Anna realized that Kulan was no
longer a boy. The discipline had been strict and the
training harsh, but he was every inch a king. Yet she was
impatient, for their time was short, and if the plane were
discovered, the fliers would be killed and they would be
condemned to more fruitless, wasted years.
Alone at last, she said to him, ?What was all that
about the drought at Tosun Nor??
?It had been rumored, so while you talked to the old
man of your people, I asked the other. He spoke of dense
clouds of dust high in the heavens, and of sheep and
horses lying dead from starvation and thirst.?
He paused. ?It is well that Norba goes, for when he
returns, if he returns, his power will be broken.?
He glanced at her slyly, his face warming with
a smile. ?My mother taught me to listen, to question
when in doubt, and to keep my thoughts until the time
for speaking.?
After Kulan was asleep, she went outside the yurt
and stood alone under the stars. There was moonlight
upon the snows of the God Mountain, reflected moonlight
that seemed born from some inner glory within the
mountain itself.
She thought of home, of the quiet college town and
210
the autumn leaves falling. It had been almost twenty
years, but tomorrow they would fly over the mountains
to India. To a fine hotel, a room of her own, a hot bath,
and a real bed ... it was impossible to imagine such
things still existed.
For fifteen years she had been virtually a prisoner.
True, Lok-sha had treated her well, and she had been respected
among the Go-log, but their ways were strange,
and her nights had been given up to dreaming of home.
The thought of Norba returned. If Kulan was gone,
he would be in control, and would probably lead the
Khang-sar Go-log to disaster. Lok-sha had always said
he was a stubborn fool.
No matter. It was now or never. It was impossible
that another opportunity would occur, for travel was restricted.
No Europeans or Americans would be flying
over this country. It was her last chance.
She looked around at the sleeping encampment. She
would miss it. Lok-sha, despite their differences of background,
had been a superior man. If he had been slow to
appreciate her feelings, there had been no cruelty in him.
The icy peak was austere in its bath of moonlight; it
was taller than Everest, some said, yet it gave an impression
of bulk rather than height. It was no wonder the
Go-log called it the God Mountain.
Tsan-Po was walking toward her. ?Do you
go tomorrow??
She had ceased to be startled by his awareness of
things. ?Yes.?
?You have been long away . . . does someone await
you there??
?No.?
?We will miss you, and we will miss Kulan.?
?He goes to a great land. He will do well, I think.?
?Here he is a king. Ours is a small king, but even a
small king is still a king.?
She felt the reproof of his tone, and together they
watched the moonlight on Amne Machin. ?He will make
a strong man,?the lama said, ?a stronger man and a
better leader than Lok-sha.?
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 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 211
She was surprised. ?Do you really believe that??
?You have taught him much, and he has character.
We Go-log face a trying time, for as the world changes,
even we must change.
?Kulan has a sense of the world. You taught him of
your land and of Europe, and I have told him of India,
where I worked as a young man. He is schooled in the
arts of war and statecraft, and I believe it is in him to be a
great leader.?
He was silent, then added, ?Your country could use
a friend here.?
?Do you believe I am wrong to take him away??
?We need him,?Tsan-Po replied simply, ?and he
needs you. For several years yet, he will need you.?
The lama turned away. ?It is late.?He took a step,
then paused. ?Beware of Norba. You have not finished
with him.?
When morning dawned, they rode swiftly to the
hidden trucks. What Lok-sha planned to do with the
trucks, she did not know, but presumably he intended to
use them as a trap for Chinese soldiers.
She started the truck with difficulty for the motor
was cold. There was no road, but the turf was solid, and
she had driven on the prairie during her childhood in
Montana. The old Army six-by-six was no problem.
Kulan followed, holding off to one side and leading
her horse.
Keeping to low ground and circling to avoid gullies
or patches of rock, she needed all of an hour to reach
the plane.
The pilot and Dr. Schwarzkopf rushed to the tailgate
and started to unload the cans. As soon as the truck was
empty, Anna drove back for a second truck, and by the
time she had returned, the cans of the first had been emptied
into the tanks of the plane.
Yet they had scarcely begun on the second load
when Shambe came down off the ridge where he had
been on watch. Kulan, also watching from a quarter of a
mile away, wheeled his mount and raced back at a dead
run, drawing his rifle from its scabbard.
I
212
?Norba comes,?Shambe said, ?with many men.?
Schwarzkopf dropped his jerry can and started for
his rifle, but Anna's gesture stopped him. ?Finish refueling,?
she said, and when he hesitated, ?Doctor, put
that gun down and get busy!?
Kulan swung his pony alongside her as she mounted,
and Shambe drew up on the other side. They sat together,
awaiting the oncoming riders.
Norba's horse reared as he drew up, a hard pleasure
in his eyes. ?So . . . you are traitors. I shall kill you.?
Anna Doone's heart pounded heavily, yet she kept
all emotion from her face. Her son's life, as well as her
own, was at stake.
?These men are our friends. We help them on their
way,?she said.
?And I shall decide who is and is not a traitor,?
Kulan added.
From behind them the pilot said, ?One more can
does it.?
Anna's heart lifted. Behind her was the plane that
could take her home, the rescue of which she had
dreamed for fifteen years. The time was here, the time
was now.
The sky beckoned, and beyond the mountains lay
India, the threshold to home.
?Go with them, Mother.?Kulan's eyes did not turn
from Norba. ?I cannot, for these are my people.?
Her protest found no words. How often had she
taught him that kingship was an obligation rather than
a glory?
Her eyes swung around the semicircle of savage
faces, and then for one brief instant the dream remained,
shimmering before her eyes: a warm quiet house, a hot
bath, meals prepared from food from a market, life
without fear of disease or crippling disfigurement, life
without war.
?Dr. Schwarzkopf,?she said, ?you will leave your
rifles and ammunition, they are in short supply here.?
?If you are going,?Kulan said, ?you must go now.?
213
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 213
?If these are your people, Kulan, then they are my
people also.?
The winding caravan of Norba's people appeared,
heading north toward Tosun Nor. She should have remembered
they would come this way.
Dr. Schwarzkopf brought the weapons and the ammunition.
?You will not come with us, then??
?I can't. This is my son.?
?You will die,?Norba said. His eyes flickered over
the three he hated-the wife of Lok-sha, the leader of
the Ku-ts'a, and the boy who stood between him
and the kingship.
Norba's rifle started to lift, and Shambe's started up
with it, but Kulan put out a hand to stop the movement,
then stepped his horse toward Norba and looked into
his eyes.
?I amjyabo,?he said. ?I am your king.?
For an instant Norba's rifle held still, then slowly it
lowered. With an oath, Norba whirled his horse and
dashed away, followed by his men.
Behind them the motors broke into a roar, and
throwing up a vast cloud of dust, the plane rolled off,
gathered speed, then soared up and away, toward India,
toward home.
?You should have let me kill him,?Shambe said.
?No, Shambe,?Kulan replied, ?many go to die, but
those who remain will remember that I spoke truth.?
Three abreast, they rode to the crest of the ridge
and halted. The caravan of Norba's followers moved
north toward the great lake known as Tosun Nor, moved
toward drought and death.
Anna Doone, born in Montana, looked beyond
them to a bright fleck that hung in the sky. Sunlight
gleamed for an instant on a wing tip ... then it winked
out and was gone, leaving only a distant mutter of engines
that echoed against the mountains.
214
 A NOTE ON THE DEDICATION
By Beau L'Amour
Since Louis's death in 1988 there have been no dedications
on any of the new L'Amour books. This is as it
should be. Louis's work was his to dedicate as he chose.
In this one particular instance my family and I have felt it
was appropriate to step in and change that policy. John
Veitch was our family's great friend and his was one
of the closest relationships that Louis, a man who had
many acquaintances but few true friendships, ever had.
John was the godfather to both my sister and me and was
married to my mother's closest and oldest friend.
Just after he passed away, Mom told me that losing
him was so hard that she felt it was like losing my father
again. ... I wasn't surprised since she had known him a
decade before she met Louis, and John had lived a
decade longer.
In 1966 Louis dedicated ?The Broken Gun?to the
recently deceased Alan Ladd and Bill Bendix, Alan's
partner in many movie adventures. Alan and Susie Ladd
were John Veitch's good friends, almost like adopted
parents. He was a member of their household for many
years. He married their eldest daughter and in doing so
became like a member of our family, too.
John was a production executive and ultimately the
215
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 215
production executive at Columbia Studios. He was a
movie producer and troubleshooter with no peer. To
many of us whose lives have touched briefly on the film
business (few more briefly than mine) he was a moral
compass in a hall of smoke and mirrors.
John was the master of lengthy holiday toasts, a
gentle Irish soul and a brave warrior who had ieft his war
far behind him. We have dedicated this book to John and
Louis in order to say: Godspeed old friends, we will not
see your like again.
216
 AFTERWORD
By Beau L'Amour
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains is the first in a series
of four collections that will cover a broad spectrum of
my father's work. ?The Gravel Pit?and ?The Money
Punch?recall the late forties and early fifties when Louis
had just moved to Los Angeles. Although written in the
same period, ?Sideshow Champion?and ?Under the
Hanging Wall?draw on his earlier experiences as a carnival
boxer and miner. ?Meeting at Falmouth?was an
early experiment in the historical genre, when Dad was
first attempting to break away from the label of being an
author of westerns.
Both ?By the Waters of San Tadeo?and ?Beyond
the Great Snow Mountains?are stories that either drew
from Louis's mysterious travels in South America and
China or sprang from his encyclopedialike knowledge of
geography and obscure cultures. ?Coast Patrol?may
also be included in this last group and raises the added
question of the character of Turk Madden. As represented
in several of Louis L'Amour's early adventure stories,
Turk is a fictional character. Some of the inspiration
for Louis's writing about this tramp pilot was Jimmy
Angel, the bush pilot for whom Venezuela's Angel Falls
217
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 217
are named. But Dad claimed to have known an adventurer
named Turk Madden in the Far East, and if this is
true, then Turk is one of the few times when Dad gave a
fictional character the name of one of his friends.
Work on the Louis L'Amour biography continues
at its maddeningly slow pace. Information drifts in,
sometimes proving, sometimes disproving, stories Louis
told or ideas that I have had about what happened at
certain times.
I want to extend my thanks to all the people who
have written in with information for the book, and I
want to apologize in advance because I will no longer be
able to answer all of the wonderful fan mail that has
come to me through the Biography Project's P.O. box.
My staff and I are swamped with research and simply
cannot keep up with all the nonbiography fan letters that
keep coming in. We have decided that from now on we
can respond only to those of you who write in about a
subject that directly pertains to the biography itself. I regret
this, I appreciate everyone's interest, but I'm not
making enough progress on the story of my father's life
and I must focus on only the things that help me get that
into print.
The next book (which will be out in spring of 2000)
will be Off the Mangrove Coast. It will contain the same
eclectic mixture of stories as this collection. However,
there will be a few that are like those stories in the Pondering
collection, tales drawn from Louis's life or the
lives of people that he knew. There will still be a few
more westerns, more crime, and more sports stories
to come.
Below are the names of the people whom I would like to
contact. If you find your name on the list, I would be very
grateful if you would write to me. Some of these people
may have known Louis as ?Duke?LaMoore or Michael
?Micky?Moore, since Louis occasionally used those
names. Many of the people on this list may have died. If
218
you are a family member (or were a very good friend) of
anyone on the list who has passed away, I would like to
hear from you, too. Some of the names I have marked
with an asterisk. If there is anyone out there who knows
anything at all about these people, I would like to hear it.
The address to write to is:
Louis L'Amour Biography Project
P.O. Box 41183
Pasadena, CA 91114-9183
Because of the many demands on our time, we
will no longer be responding to fan mail sent to this
address ... it is for correspondence regarding biography
information only!
Marian Payne Married a guy named Duane. Louis knew
her in Oklahoma in the mid- to late 1930s. She moved
to New York for a while; she may have lived in Wichita
at some point.
Chaplain Phillips Louis first met him at Fort Sill, then
again in Paris at the Place de Saint Augustine Officers'
Mess. The first meeting was in 1942, the second
in 1945.
Anne Mary Bentley Friend of Louis's from Oklahoma
in the 1930s. Possibly a musician of some sort. Lived
in Denver for a time.
Pete Boering* Born in the late 1890s. Came from Amsterdam,
Holland. His father may have been a ship's captain.
Betty Brown Woman Louis corresponded with extensively
while in Choctaw, Oklahoma, in the late 1930s.
Later she moved to New York.
Jacques Chambrun* Louis's agent from the late 1930s
through the late 1950s.
Des His first name. Chambrun's assistant in the late
1940s or early 1950s.
Joe Friscia* Joined Hagenbeck & Wallace circus in
Phoenix in the mid-1920s. Rode freights across Texas
and spent a couple of nights in the Star of Hope mission
in Houston. May have been from Boston.
219
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 219
Harry ?Shorty?Warren* Shipmate of Louis's in the
mid-1920s. Harry may have been an Australian.
Joe Hollinger* Louis met him while with Hagenbeck
Sc Wallace circus, where he ran the ?privilege car.?A
couple of months later he shipped out with Louis. This
was in the mid-1920s.
Joe Hildebrand* Louis met him on the docks in New
Orleans in the mid-1920s, then ran into him later
in Indonesia. Joe may have been the first mate and
Louis second mate on a schooner operated by Captain
Douglas. This would have been in the East Indies
in the later 1920s or early 1930s. Joe may have
been an aircraft pilot and flown for Pan-Am in the
early 1930s.
Turk Madden* Louis knew him in Indonesia in the late
1920s or early 1930s. They may have spent some time
around the ?old?Straits Hotel and the Maypole Bar in
Singapore. Later on, in the States, Louis traveled around
with him, putting on boxing exhibitions. Madden
worked at an airfield near Denver as a mechanic in
the early 1930s. Louis eventually used his name for a
fictional character.
?Cockney?Joe Hagen* Louis knew him in Indonesia
in the late 1920s or early 1930s.
Richard LaForte* A merchant seaman from the Bay
area. Shipped out with Louis in the mid-1920s.
Mason or Milton* Don't know which was his real
name. He was a munitions dealer in Shanghai in the late
1920s or 1930s. He was killed while Louis was there.
His head was stuck on a pipe in front of his house as a
warning not to double-cross a particular warlord.
Singapore Charlie* Louis knew him in Singapore and
served with him on Captain Douglas's schooner in the
East Indies. Louis was second mate and Charlie was
bo'sun. He was a stocky man of indeterminate race,
and, if I remember correctly, Dad told me he had quite
a few tattoos. In the early 1930s Louis helped get him
a job on a ship in San Pedro, California, that was
owned by a movie studio.
Renee Semich She was born in Vienna, I think, and was
220
going to a New York art school when Louis met her.
This was just before WWII. Her father's family was
from Yugoslavia or Italy, her mother from Austria.
They lived in New York; her aunt had an apartment
overlooking Central Park. For a while she worked for
a company in Waterbury, Connecticut.
Aola Seery Friend of Louis's from Oklahoma City in
the late 1930s. She was a member of the ?Writer's
Club?and I think she had both a brother and a sister.
Enoch Lusk Owner of Lusk Publishing Company in
1939, original publisher of Louis's Smoke from this
Altar. Also associated with the National Printing
Company, Oklahoma City.
Helen Turner* Louis knew her in late 1920s Los Angeles.
Once a showgirl with Jack Fine's Follies.
James ?Jimmy?Eades* Louis knew him in San Pedro
in the mid-1920s.
Frank Moran Louis met him in Ventura, California
when Louis was a ?club second?for fighters in the
later 1920s. They also may have known each other in
Los Angeles or Kingman, Arizona, in the mid-1920s.
Louis ran into him again on Hollywood Boulevard
late in 1946.
Jud and Red Rasco* Brothers or cousins, cowboys,
Louis met them in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Also saw
them in Santa Rosa, New Mexico. This was in the
early to mid-1920s.
Olga Santiago Friend of Louis's from late 1940s Los
Angeles. Last saw her at a book signing in Thousand
Oaks, California.
Jose Craig Berry* A writer friend of Louis's from Oklahoma
City in the late 1930s. She worked for a paper
called the Black Dispatch.
Evelyn Smith Colt She knew him in Kingman at one
point, probably the late 1920s. Louis saw her again
much later at a Paso Robles book signing.
Kathlyn Beucler Hays Friend from Choctaw, taught
school there in the 1930s. Louis saw her much later at
a book signing in San Diego.
221
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 221
Floyd Bolton* A man from Hollywood who came out
to Oklahoma to talk to Louis about a possible trip to
Java to make a movie.
Lisa Cohn Reference librarian in Portland; family
owned Cohn Bros, furniture store. Louis knew her in
the late 1920s or early 1930s.
Mary Claire Collingsworth Friend and correspondent
from Oklahoma in the 1930s.
C.A. Donnell Guy in Oklahoma City in the early
1930s who rented Louis a typewriter.
Captain Douglas* Captain of a ship in Indonesia that
Louis served on, a three-masted auxiliary schooner.
Leonard Duks* I think that this was probably a shortened
version of the original family name. A first mate
in the mid-1920s. I think that he was a U.S. citizen but
he was originally a Russian.
Maudee Harris My aunt Chynne's sister.
Parker LaMoore and Chynne Harris LaMoore*
Louis's eldest brother and his wife. Parker was secretary
to the governor of Oklahoma for a while, then he
worked for the Scripps-Howard newspaper chain. He
also worked with Ambassador Pat Hurley. He died in
the early 1950s. Chynne outlived him, but I don't
know where she lived after his death.
Mrs. Brown Worked for Parker LaMoore in the 1930s
to the 1950s.
Haig* First name unknown. Louis described him as a
Scotsman, once an officer in the British-India army.
Louis said he was ?an officer in one of the Scottish regiments.?
Louis knew him in Shanghai in the 1930s,
and we don't know how old he would have been at the
time. He may have been involved in some kind of intelligence
work. He and Louis shared an apartment for a
while, which seems to have been located just off
Avenue King Edward VII.
Lola LaCorne Along with her sister and mother, she
was a friend of Louis's in Paris during World War II.
She later taught literature at the Sorbonne and had
(hopefully still has) a husband named Christopher.
222
Dean Kirby A pal from Oklahoma City in the late 1930s
who seems to have been a copywriter or something of
the sort. Might have worked for Lusk Publishing.
Bunny Yeager Girlfriend of Dean Kirby's from Oklahoma
City. Not the famous photographer for Playboy.
Virginia McElroy Girl with whom Louis went to
school in Jamestown, North Dakota.
Guardsman Fenwill A British boxer in the period between
the mid-1920s and the mid-1930s.
Arleen Weston Sherman A friend of Louis's from
Jamestown, when he was thirteen or fourteen. I think
her family visited the LaMoores in Choctaw in the
1930s. Her older sister's name is Mary; parents' names
are Ralph and Lil.
Harry Bigelow Louis knew him in Ventura. He had a
picture taken with Louis's mother, Emily LaMoore, at
a place named Berkeley Springs around 1929. Louis
may have known him at the Katherine mine, near
Kingman, Arizona, or in Oregon.
Tommy Pinto Boxer from Portland; got Louis a job at
Portland Manufacturing.
Nancy Carroll An actress as of 1933. She may have
been in the chorus of a show at the Winter Garden in
New York and a cabaret in New Jersey where she and
her sister danced occasionally, probably during the
mid-to late 1920s.
Judith Wood Actress. Louis knew her in Hollywood in
the late 1920s.
Stanley George The George family relocated from
Kingman, Arizona, to Ventura, California, possibly in
the late 1920s.
Francis Lederer* Actor whom Louis knew in late
1920s Los Angeles. I'm looking for anyone who knew
him in Hollywood between 1926 and 1931.
Lieutenant Rix Served in the 3622 Quartermaster
Truck Co. in Europe in 1944-45.
Pablo De Gantes * Ex-soldier of fortune who occasionally
wrote magazine articles for Lands of Romance
in the 1930s. This man used several names, and I beHiNHettn^
223
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 223
lieve he was actually a Belgian. He lived in Mexico at
one time.
Lieutenant King Traveled to England with Louis when
he was shipped overseas in early 1944.
K. C. Gibson or bis two nephews In October 1924,
they were crossing New Mexico and Arizona, bound
for Brawley, California.
Wilma Anderson A friend of Louis's from Oklahoma
who worked in the Key campaign headquarters in 1938.
Johnny Annette A boxer Louis fought a bout with in
Woodward, Oklahoma (or Kansas) in the 1930s.
Harry Bell A boxing promoter Louis worked with in
Oklahoma City in the 1930s.
Joe Bickerstaff* An occasional boxing promoter, in
Klamath Falls, Oregon, in the late 1920s.
Pat Chaney Friend of Louis's from Choctaw, Oklahoma,
in the late 1930s.
Mr. Lettsinger* An older man whom Louis knew in
Klamath Falls in the late 1920s. I think he was from
the Midwest or the South.
Tommy Dan forth* A boxing promoter from Prescott,
Arizona, in the mid-1920s. Was using the V.A. hospital
at Fort Whipple.
Ned DeWitt* Knew Louis in Oklahoma in the 1930s,
also a friend of Jim Thompson.
Austin Fullerton Sold tickets for athletic events in Oklahoma
City in the late 1930s.
Martha Nell Hitchcock A friend from Edmond, Oklahoma,
in the 1930s.
Tommy Tucker* Boss stoker on a British Blue Funnel
ship in the mid-1920s to mid-1930s.
Dynamite Jackson* An African-American fighter
Louis helped promote in Oklahoma in the 1930s.
Orry Kelly Designer in Hollywood; Louis knew him in
the late 1940s.
Dorothy Kilgallen A newspaper columnist who
worked in L.A. in the 1950s.
Henry Li Louis knew him from 1943, when he was at
Camp Robinson, Arkansas.
224
 r
224 / Louis L'Amour
Savoie Lottinville* Of the University of Oklahoma.
Julio Lopez Louis worked for him very briefly in
Phoenix in the mid-1920s.
Joe May A rancher Louis boxed with in Fort Sumner,
New Mexico, in the 1920s.
Ann Mehaffey A friend of Louis's from the time he
spent at Camp Robinson, Arkansas.
Sam Merwin or Sam Mines*' Once worked with Leo
Margulies at Standard Magazines/Better Publications.
Jack Natteford Screenwriter who worked with Louis
in the 1950s.
Joe Paskvan Once of the Oklahoma Writers Project,
who Louis knew in the late 1930s.
Billy Prince Went to sea in the late 1930s on the Wallace
E. Pratt, a Standard tanker.
Countess Dulong de Rosney (Toni Morgan)* Louis
knew her in France in the mid-1940s.
Dot and Truitt Ross Brother and sister Louis knew in
Oklahoma in the 1930s.
Mary Jane Stevenson A friend of Louis's from L.A. in
the late 1940s.
Orchid Tatu Lived in Sparta, Wisconsin, in the
mid-1940s.
Florence Wagner Wife of Rob Wagner of Rob Wagner's
Script.
Doris Weil A roomer in the flat where Louis lived in the
late 1940s.
Sandra Widener Wrote an article on Louis called ?The
Untold Stories of Louis L'Amour.?
Anyone who knew Louis in Los Angeles or New York
between 1946 and 1956.
I would also like to hear about, or from, anyone who
served on S.S. Steel Worker between 1925 and 1930.
In particular: Captain C.C. Boase, 2nd Mate Ralph
Jones, 3d Mate Raymond Cousins, Radio Operator
Stanley Turbervil, Carpenter George Mearly, Bo'sun
225
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 225
H. Allendorf, Chief Engineer C. B. Dahlberg, 1st Asst
Eng. O. E. Morgan, 2nd Asst Eng. W. Haynes, 3d Asst
Engineers George G. Folberth and William Stewart,
Oilers A. Chagnon and A. Kratochbil, Firemen William
Hohroien, J. Perez, Manfrido Gonzales, John Fennelly,
and E. G. Burnay, Wipers A. Sanchez, ]ŠJ. Dalmasse
and F. Clifford, Steward /. Shiel, Messmen Dean Bender,
William Harvey, and /. H. Blomstedt, Abie-Bodied
Seamen Ernest Martin, Chris Moore, Karl Erickson,
Steve Schmotzer, Michael Llorca, Louis Armand, Joseph
Morris, Herbert Lieflander, William Reichart, and
H. F. Waite.
Also, anyone familiar with Singapore in the late
1920s, the old Straits Hotel, and the Maypole Bar. And
anyone who is very knowledgeable in military history
and/or politics in western (Shansi, Kansu, and Sinkiang
provinces) China in 1928-36.
I am also looking for seamen who served on the following
ships: the Catherine G. Sudden, between 1925
and 1936; the Yellowstone, between 1925 and 1936; the
S.S. Steadfast, between 1924 and 1930; the Annandale
(exact spelling uncertain), a four-masted bark, between
1920 and 1926; the Randsberg, a German freighter, between
1925 and 1937.
Also, anyone who knows anything about an old
square-rigged sailing vessel called the Indiana, which
was used in movies in the 1920s and 1930s. This ship
was docked at San Pedro.
Anyone who knows anything about the following
boxers: Jonny ?Kid?Stopper, Jack Horan, ?Kid?Yates,
Butch Vierthaler (Bill Thaler). And Ira O'Neil, Jimmy
Roberts, Jimmy Russo, Jack McGraf, or Jackie Jones-
guys Louis met in Phoenix in October of 1924.
Anyone who knows anything about a fight (I assume
with small arms) between two trading schooners that
was stopped by a British warship near Pinaki in the South
Pacific. This would have been between 1926 and 1932.
Anyone from the family or group that Louis guided
around Egypt sometime between 1926 and 1937.
226
Although he very much looked the part, Louis finally
admitted that he wasn't a real guide and that he'd been
using a tour book from a library to learn about where he
was taking them. They may have been staying at Shepherds.
Some or all of the party were Americans, and
there may have been as many as twelve of them.
Anyone who might know about a flight that Louis
took across Africa with a French officer, with stops at
Taudeni and Timbuktu. This would have been between
the mid-1920s and late 1930s.
Anyone familiar with an island in the Spratly group
called Itu Aba.
Anyone who knows anything about a very shortlived
magazine published in Oklahoma City in 1936
called Uptown Magazine.
Anyone who knows if Norman Foster and Rex Bell
(George Francis Beldam) ever went to sea during the
1920s or early 1930s.
Anyone who knows where the personal and business
papers of B. P. Schulberg (not Budd) and Sam Katz are
archived. Both of these men worked at Paramount
Publix Pictures. The period that I am interested in is the
late 1920s to the early 1930s.
Anyone familiar with the Royal Government Experimental
Hospital in Calcutta, India.
I would also like to hear from men who served in the
following military units: the 3622 Quartermaster Truck
Company, between June of 1944 and December of 1945;
the 3595 Quartermaster Truck Company, after October
1945 and before January 1946; the 670th Tank Destroyer
Battalion, at Camp Hood, Texas in 1943; the 808th Tank
Destroyer Battalion, at Camp Phillips, Kansas, in 1943.
Also, soldiers or officers who took basic training at
Camp Robinson, Arkansas, between September 1942
and January 1943; took winter training at Camp McCoy,
Wisconsin, and near Land o' Lakes and Watersmeet in
the northern Michigan peninsula between October 1943
and February 1944, or remember Louis in early 1944
when he was staying at the St. Francis Hotel and the
Belleview in San Francisco. During this time he worked
227
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 227
at the Oakland Air Base and Fort Mason, California.
Later he was at Camp Beale, California.
Anyone who worked with the Oklahoma WPA
Writers Project.
Any recordings that anyone knows about of any of
Louis's speeches.
228
?I think of myself in the oral tradition-as a troubadour,
a village tale-teller, the man in the shadows
of the campftre. That's the way I'd like to be remembered-as
a storyteller. A good storyteller.?
It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in the
world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn
L'Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of
the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally
?walked the land my characters walk.?His personal experiences
as well as his lifelong devotion to historical
research combined to give Mr. L'Amour the unique
knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the
challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks
of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L'Amour could trace
his own family in North America back to the early 1600s
and follow their steady progression westward, ?always
on the frontier.?As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North
Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family's frontier
heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather
who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden
his horizons, Mr. L'Amour left home at the age of fifteen
and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman,
lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle,
miner, and was an officer in the transportation corps
during World War II. During his ?yondering?days ne
229
 Beyond the Great Snow Mountains / 229
also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the
Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded
in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights
as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and
lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare
books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L'Amour ?wanted to write almost from the time
I could talk.?After developing a widespread following
for his many frontier and adventure stories written for
fiction magazines, Mr. L'Amour published his first fulllength
novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every
one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are
nearly 260 million copies of his books in print worldwide,
making him one of the bestselling authors in
modern literary history. His books have been translated
into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his
novels and stories have been made into feature films and
television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome
Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical
novel), Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted
Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was
a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and
adaptations of many L'Amour stories are available on
cassette tapes from Bantam Audio Publishing.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in
1983 Mr. L'Amour became the first novelist ever to be
awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United
States Congress in honor of his life's work. In 1984 he was
also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L'Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife,
Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry
the L'Amour tradition forward with new books written by
the author during his lifetime to be published by Bantam.
230
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Nightmare Collect from a Corpse I Hate to Tell His Widow 24134-6 $399
(See next page for more Louis L'Amour collections)
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Send order to: Bantam Books, Dept. LL 23, 2451 S. WolfRd., Des Plaines, IL 60018
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231
 Bowdrie'S Law-McNelly Knows a Ranger Where Buzzards Fly Case
Closed-No Prisoners Down Sonora Way The Road to Casa Piedra A Ranger Rides to
Town South of Deadwood The Outlaws of Poplar Creek Rain on the Mountain Fork
Strange Pursuit 24550-3 $3-99
LAW OF THE DESERT BORN-Law of the Desert Born Riding On The Black
Rock Coffin Makers Desert Death Songs Ride, You Tonto Raiders! One Last Gun
Notch Song of the Sombrero The Guns Talk Loud Grub line Rider The Marshal of
Painted Rock Trap of Gold 24133-8 $4.50
RIDING FOR THE Brand-Riding for the Brand Four-Card Draw His
Brother's Debt A Strong Land Growing The Turkeyfeather Riders Lit a Shuck for Texas
The Nester and the Piute Barney Takes a Hand Man Riding West Fork Your Own
Broncs Home in the Valley West Is Where the Heart Is 28105-4 $4.50
DUTCHMAN'S FLAT-Dutchman's Flat Keep Travelin', Rider Trail to Pie Town
Mistakes Can Kill You Big Medicine Man from Battle Flat West of the Tularosas
McQueen of the Tumbling K The One for the Mohave Kid The Lion Hunter and the Lady
A Gun for Kilkenny 28111-9 $4.50
The Rider OF THE Ruby Hnxs-The Rider of the Ruby Hills Showdown
Trail* A Man Called Trent «The Trail to Peach Meadow Canyon 28112-7 $4.50
The Trail to Crazy Man-The Trail to Crazy Man Riders of the Dawn
Showdown on the Hogback 28035-X $4.50
NIGHT OVER the SOLOMONS-Night over the Solomons Mission to Siberut
Pirates with Wings Tailwind to Tibet The Goose Flies South Wings over Khabarovsk
26602-0 $4.50
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Please send me the books I have checked above. I am enclosing $ (add $2.50 to
cover postage and handling). Send check or money order, no cash or C.O.D. s, please.
Name
Address
City/State/Zip
Send order to: Bantam Books, Dept. IX 23, 2451 S. Wolf Rd., Des Plaines, IL 60018
Allow four to six weeks for delivery.
Prices and availability subject to change without notice. LL 23 4/00
232
 West from Singapore-East of Gorontalo On the Road to Amurang
From Here to Banggai The House of Qasavara Well of the Unholy light West from
Singapore South of Suez 26353-6 $399
LONIGAN-Lonigan Regan of the Slash Heritage of Hate Rowdy Rides to Glory
Pardner from Rio Bill Carey Rides West 27536-4 $4.50
LONG Ride Home-The Cactus Kid Pays a Debt Bad Place to Die That Triggernometry
Tenderfoot * The Town No Guns Could Tame Shandy Takes the Hook No
Man's Man Ride or Start Shootin' Long Ride Home 28181-X $4.50
The Outlaws of Mesquite-The Outlaws of Mesquite Love and the Cactus
Kid The Ghost Maker The Drift No Rest for the Wicked The Packsaddle Affair
Showdown on the Tumbling T The Sixth Shotgun 28714-1 $399
Valley of the Sun-We Shaped the Land with Our Guns West of the Pilot
Range When a Texan Takes Over No Man's Mesa Gila Crossing Medicine Ground
Valley of the Sun That Slash Seven Kid In Victoria's Country 57444-2 $4.99
WEST OF Dodge-Beyond the Chaparral A Husband for Janey West of Dodge
The Passing of Rope Nose To Make a Stand That Man from the Bitter Sands Let the
Cards Decide Riches Beyond Dream West of Dry Creek Marshal of Canyon Gap
Home Is the Hunter Rain on the Halfmoon Stage to Willowspring Tb Hang Me High
57697-6 $4.9946.99
End of THE Drive-Caprock Rancher»Elisha Conies to Red Horse Desperate
Men The Courting of Griselda End of the Drive The Lonesome Gods Rustler
Roundup The Skull and the Arrow 57898-7 $4.99/$6.99
MONUMENT Rock-A Man Named Utah Battle at Burnt Camp Ironwood Station
Here Ends the Trail Last Day in Town Strawhouse Trail The Man from the
Dead Hills 'Monument Rock
58082-5 $4.9946.99
Ask for these books at your local bookstore or use this page to order.
Please send me the books I have checked above. I am enclosing $ (add $2.50 to
cover postage and handling). Send check or money order, no cash or C. O. D. s, please.
Name
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City/State/Zip
Send oider to: Bantam Books, Dept. LL 23,2451 S. Wolf Rd., Des Plaines, IL 60018
Allow four to six weeks for delivery.
Prices and availability subject to change without notice LL 23 4/00
233
 n
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