The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four by Louis L’Amour Page A

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. Scum, but a bloody, dangerous sort of scum, and plotting no good to anyone.
    “Simple,” Tom 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.
    Tom 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 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.