Collection 1986 - Night Over The Solomons (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online Page A

angles in this part of the world. I’d feel better if I was in Chicago, or Memphis, or the Big Town.”

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    S TEVE COWAN SLIPPED along the starboard side of the hatch, crouching low. Amidships, he found, as he had feared, that the hatch was still covered. Working swiftly, he took out the wedges, then slid the steel batten from its place. Lifting the corner of the tarpaulin, he got hold of the end hatch cover and slid it slowly out of place, then eased it to the deck.
    Swiftly he eased himself into the hole. Pulling the tarpaulin back over him, he went down the steel ladder in the utter blackness of the hold. It seemed a long time before he reached the bottom. Then he was standing on a tier of cargo.
    Momentarily Cowan flashed a light. He was standing on a tier of casing-head drums, piled six high. He put the explosive down and coolly spun the tops from a dozen of the drums. Then, as he stooped to adjust the time on the explosive, his flashlight slipped and fell. The glass broke with a faint tinkle on the dunnage below.
    For an instant, Cowan crouched in the darkness, his heart pounding. He dared not strike a match, for by now the air around him was filling with fumes of gasoline. For the life of him he could not recall the time for which the bomb was set!
    It might be set to go off in three minutes, or five, or an hour. Possibly even a dozen hours. Steve Cowan had planned to adjust it before leaving. Now he had no idea. All that remained was to throw the switch that put the thing to work.
    It might blow him up instantly. It might go off before he was out of the hatch. Or off the ship—
    It was a chance he had to take. Cowan turned the button and then straightened to his feet. He moved swiftly and his hands found the rungs of the ladder. He went up, quickly and silently.
    Pushing back the tarpaulin, he crawled out on deck. A cold voice froze him in his tracks, with one foot under the canvas.
    “So? Snooping, is it?”
    The voice was Donner’s, and a second later a light flashed in Steve Cowan’s eyes.
    He heard a startled gasp, saw the muzzle of a gun.
    “Who are you?” The voice was cold, deadly. “Tell me, or I’ll fire!”
    “I’m a refugee,” Cowan declared, heart pounding. “I was trying to stow away to get out of here before the Japanese come.”
    Someone came out of the passage.
    “What’s goin’ on, Donner?” It was Mataga’s voice. Then Mataga saw Steve Cowan’s face. “Well, for—”
    “You know this man?” Donner’s voice was deadly. “Get inside off the deck,” he snapped.
    When they were in the saloon, Besi John sat on the corner of the table. His gross, hard-bitten face was unshaven, and his small eyes were cruel.
    “So, Mr. Steve Cowan. After all these years we get together again!”
    Mataga’s face flamed suddenly and animal fury gleamed redly in his eyes.
    “Again! D’you hear? And I’m top dog this time! I’ll teach you a thing or two, you dirty—”
    “Take it easy.” Donner’s voice was even. “Who is this man?”
    “Him?” Mataga’s voice was ugly. “This is Steve Cowan. He’s a tramp flyer. The one I told you about who knew this place.”
    “Flyer, eh?” Donner looked at the Yank. “Where’s your ship?”
    “Lost it at Palembang,” Cowan lied glibly. “Enemy got in too fast and bombed the field before I could get her off. Blew off my tail assembly. I got away into the jungle and came over to the west coast, headed for Padang or Emma Haven.
    “The Japanese beat me to it, so I picked up a boat and sailed her here to Siberut. I saw this freighter and decided to stow away and get out.”

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    D ONNER STUDIED HIM.
    “It’s a good story,” he said slowly. “Almost too good. But where is the girl?”
    “Girl?” Cowan felt an empty sensation in his stomach. “What girl?”
    “The one,” Donner said coldly, “that left this hair on your shoulder!”
    Deflty he picked a long golden hair from Cowan’s shirt. Evidently it had been left there when he was