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

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 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.
    “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