The Trail to Crazy Man: Stories - Softcover

Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L’Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world.

THE TRAIL TO CRAZY MAN  
CHAPTER I
 
Shanghaied
 
IN THE DANK, odorous forecastle, a big man with wide shoulders sat at a scarred mess table, his feet spread to brace himself against the roll of the ship. A brass hurricane lantern, its light turned low, swung from a beam overhead, and in the vague light the big man studied a worn and sweat-stained chart.
 
There was no sound in the forecastle but the distant rustle of the bow wash about the hull, the lazy creak of the square-rigger’s timbers, a few snores from sleeping men, and the hoarse, rasping breath of a man who was dying in the lower bunk.
 
The big man who bent over the chart wore a slipover jersey with alternate red and white stripes, a broad leather belt and a brass buckle, and coarse jeans. On his feet were woven leather sandals of soft, much-oiled leather. His hair was shaggy and uncut, but he was clean-shaven except for a mustache and burnsides.
 
The chart he studied showed the coast of northern California. He marked a point on it with the tip of his knife and then checked the time with a heavy gold watch. After a swift calculation, he folded the chart and replaced it in an oilskin packet with other papers and tucked the packet under his jersey, above his belt.
 
Rising, he stood for an instant, canting to the roll of the ship, staring down at the white-haired man in the lower bunk. There was that about the big man to make him stand out in any crowd. He was a man born to command, not only because of his splendid physique and the strength of his character, but because of his personality.
 
He knelt beside the bunk and touched the dying man’s wrist. The pulse was feeble. Rafe Caradec crouched there, waiting, watching, thinking.
 
In a few hours at most, possibly even in a few minutes, this man would die. In the long year at sea his health had broken down under forced labor and constant beatings, and this last one had broken him up internally. When Charles Rodney was dead he, Rafe Caradec, would do what he must.

   
THE SHIP ROLLED slightly, and the older man sighed and his lids opened suddenly. For a moment he stared upward into the ill-smelling darkness. Then his head turned. He saw the big man crouched beside him, and he smiled. His hand fumbled for Rafe’s.
 
“You—you’ve got the papers? You won’t forget?”
 
“I won’t forget.”
 
“You must be careful.”
 
“I know.”
 
“See my wife, Carol. Explain to her that I didn’t run away, that I wasn’t afraid. Tell her I had the money and was comin’ back. I’m worried about the mortgage I paid. I don’t trust Barkow.”
 
“The man lay silent, breathing deeply, hoarsely. For the first time in three days he was conscious and aware.
 
“Take care of ’em, Rafe,” he said. “I’ve got to trust you! You’re the only chance I have! Dyin’ ain’t bad, except for them. And to think—a whole year has gone by. Anything may have happened!”
 
“You’d better rest,” Rafe said gently.
 
“It’s late for that. He’s done me in this time. Why did this happen to me, Rafe? To us?”
 
Caradec shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I don’t know. No reason, I guess. We were just there at the wrong time. We took a drink we shouldn’t have taken.”
 
The old man’s voice lowered. “You’re goin’ to try—tonight?”
 
Rafe smiled then. “Try? Tonight we’re goin’ ashore, Rodney. This is our only chance. I’m goin’ to see the captain first.”
 
Rodney smiled and lay back, his face a shade whiter, his breathing more gentle.
 
A year they had been together, a brutal, ugly, awful year of labor, blood, and bitterness. It had begun, that year, one night in San Francisco in Hongkong Bohl’s place on the Barbary Coast. Rafe Caradec was just back from Central America with a pocketful of money. His latest revolution was cleaned up, and the proceeds were mostly in his pocket, with some in the bank.
 
The months just past had been jungle months, dripping jungle, fever ridden and stifling with heat and humidity. It had been a period of raids and battles, but finally it was over, and Rafe had taken his payment in cash and moved on. He had been on the town, making up for lost time—Rafe Caradec, gambler, soldier of fortune, wanderer of the far places.
 
Somewhere along the route that night he had met Charles Rodney, a sun-browned cattleman who had come to Frisco to raise money for his ranch in Wyoming. They had had a couple of drinks and dropped in at Hongkong Bohl’s dive. They’d had a drink there, too, and when they awakened it had been to the slow, long roll of the sea, and the brutal voice of Bully Borger, skipper of the Mary S.
 
Rafe had cursed himself for a tenderfoot and a fool. To have been shanghaied like any drunken farmer! He had shrugged it off, knowing the uselessness of resistance. After all, it was not his first trip to sea.
 
Rodney had been wild. He had rushed to the captain and demanded to be put ashore, and Bully Borger had knocked him down and booted him senseless while the mate stood by with a pistol. That had happened twice more, until Rodney returned to work almost a cripple and frantic with worry over his wife and daughter.
 
As always, the crew had split into cliques. One of these consisted of Rafe, Rodney, Roy Penn, Rock Mullaney and Tex Brisco. Penn had been a law student and occasional prospector. Mullaney was an able-bodied seaman, hard-rock miner, and cowhand. They had been shanghaied in Frisco in the same lot with Rafe and Rodney. Tex Brisco was a Texas cowhand who had been shanghaied from a waterfront dive in Galveston, where he had gone to look at the sea.
 
Finding a friend in Rafe, Rodney had told him the whole story of his coming to Wyoming with his wife and daughter, of what drouth and Indians had done to his herd, and how finally he had mortgaged his ranch to a man named Barkow.
 
Rustlers had invaded the country, and he had lost cattle. Finally reaching the end of his rope he had gone to San Francisco to get a loan from an old friend. In San Francisco, surprisingly, he had met Barkow and some others, and paid off the mortgage. A few hours later, wandering into Hongkong Bohl’s place, which had been recommended to him by Barkow’s friends, he had been doped, robbed, and shanghaied.

   
WHEN THE SHIP returned to Frisco after a year, Rodney had demanded to be put ashore, and Borger had laughed at him. Then Charles Rodney had tackled the big man again, and that time the beating had been final. With Rodney dying, the Mary S. had finished her loading and slipped out of port so he could be conveniently “lost at sea.”
 
The cattleman’s breathing had grown gentler, and Rafe leaned his head on the edge of the bunk, dozing.
 
Rodney had given him a deed to the ranch, a deed that gave him a half share, the other half belonging to Rodney’s wife and daughter. Caradec had promised to save the ranch if he possibly could. Rodney had also given him Barkow’s signed receipt for the money.
 
Rafe’s head came up with a jerk. How long he had slept he did not know, yet....He stiffened as he glanced at Charles Rodney. The hoarse, rasping breath was gone; the even, gentle breath was no more. Rodney was dead.
 
For an instant, Rafe held the old man’s wrist. Then he drew the blanket over Rodney’s face. Abruptly, then, he got up. A quick glance at his watch told him they had only a few minutes until they would sight Cape Mendocino. Grabbing a small bag of things off the upper bunk, he turned quickly to the companionway.
 
Two big feet and two hairy ankles were visible on the top step. They moved, and step by step a man came down the ladder. He was a big man, bigger than Rafe, and his small, cruel eyes stared at him and then at Rodney’s bunk.
 
“Dead?”
 
“Yes.”
 
The big man rubbed a fist along his unshaven jowl. He grinned at Rafe.
 
“I heard him speak about the ranch. It could be a nice thing, that. I heard about them ranches. Money in ’em.” His eyes brightened with cupidity and cunning. “We share an’ share alike, eh?”
 
“No.” Caradec’s voice was flat. “The deed is made out to his daughter and me. His wife is to share, also. I aim to keep nothin’ for myself.”
 
“The big man chuckled hoarsely. “I can see that!” he said. “Josh Briggs is no fool, Caradec! You’re intendin’ to get it all for yourself. I want mine!” He leaned on the handrail of the ladder. “We can have a nice thing, Caradec. They said there was trouble over there? Huh! I guess we can handle any trouble, an’ make some ourselves.”
 
“The Rodneys get it all,” Rafe said. “Stand aside. I’m in a hurry.”
 
Briggs’s face was ugly. “Don’t get high an’ mighty with me!” he said roughly. “Unless you split even with me, you don’t get away. I know about the boat you’ve got ready. I can stop you there, or here.”
 
Rafe Caradec knew the futility of words. There are some natures to whom only violence is an argument. His left hand shot up suddenly, his stiffened fingers and thumb making a V that caught Briggs where his jawbone joined his throat.
 
The blow was short, vicious, unexpected. Briggs’s head jerked back, and Rafe hooked short and hard with his right, following through with a smashing elbow that flattened Briggs’s nose and showered him with blood.
 
Rafe dropped his bag and then struck, left and right to the body, then left and right to the chin. The last two blows cracked like pistol shots. Josh Briggs hit the foot of the ladder in a heap, rolled over, and lay still, his head partly under the table. Rafe picked up his bag and went up the ladder without so much as a backward glance.