The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 4 by Louis L'Amour

Author:Louis L'Amour [L'Amour, Louis]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780553903072
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2006-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

A long time later, he fought his way back to consciousness. He was sprawled on the cold steel of the deck, some distance from where he had fallen.

He caught a steampipe housing and pulled himself to a sitting position. His head throbbed with great waves of agony. When he moved, white-hot streaks of pain shot through his brain and something hammered against his skull with great force. He tried to turn his head, and his brain seemed to move like heavy paint in a bucket. A dim light was growing in the east. On the deck he could see the dark smear of his blood where he had been dragged. His attacker had planned to drop him overboard, but had been frightened away, evidently.

Ponga Jim staggered to his feet and reeled against the bulkhead, clutching his throbbing head with both hands. It was caked with blood. Stumbling, he reached the ladder and climbed slowly to the lower bridge. Somehow he got the door open and lunged into his cabin, the roll of the ship sending him sprawling to his knees.

He was still there when the door opened and Brophy came in.

“Skipper, what’s happened?” His wide, flat face was incredulous.

“I’ll get him now,” Jim muttered, hardly aware of the other man. “I know how to find him.”

For three days Jim stayed in his bunk except when on watch. His face was swollen, and there were cuts and abrasions on the sides of his head. He was remembering that. He had not been struck over the head. All the blows had struck up. The attacker had struck with peculiar, sidearm blows. It was unusual, and for the average man, unnatural.

His jaw ached, and the back of his head was bruised. However, when he came to the bridge on the fourth day, he was just in time to see the raft.

It was a point on the starboard bow, a crude raft with a man clinging to it. Even as they saw it, the man stirred, trying to rise.

“Pick him up,” Jim said, and staggered into the wheelhouse to sit down.

He still sat there when the man was brought to him. Warren and some of the others crowded inside. The man’s skull stood out, the skin like thin yellow paper drawn over it. His eyes were blazing pools of fever.

“Ile du Coin,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hurry.”

“What?” Jim asked. “What’s on the Ile du Coin?”

“Sixty men, tortured, starving, dying. Prisoners from a raider. I escaped. They shot, hit me. Hit me.” His fingers touched the scalp wound. “Ile du Coin,” he muttered again, his wits straying.

“How many Nazis?” Jim asked, watching the man narrowly.

He looked up, blinking. “Fifty. A raider sunk, saved the crew. Other ship is due back.” He stared at Jim. “They die there, horribly. Please hurry!”

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