Treasure Mountain (1972) by Louis - Sackett's 17 L'amour Read Free Book Online

end of the stick.
    "As for me, ma'am, I wouldn't ruin as easy as you might think. There's nothing you could offer me that I'd swap for one afternoon ride through the hills, and I mean it. Once a man has lived with mountains you can't offer him a home with a prairie dog."
    She walked away from me then and I stood and watched her go, a beautiful woman, beautifully gowned. Never did I see a woman walk away from me but I regretted it. I had no woman now. Ange was gone. We'd had something fine there, for a little while. As for Dorset--she'd gone off and I did not know if ever we'd meet again.
    Sitting alone, I had another glass of wine and thought about what was to come.
    I knew the Absinthe House. It was a popular place in New Orleans, and a lot of the young bloods did their drinking there, and their meeting of each other. It was on a busy corner where two people meeting would not be noticed much.
    I paid my bill and went out into the quiet warmth of the street. There were many people there, strolling, talking, laughing. From the cafes and the dance-saloons there was music, but I walked down along the avenue, hearing little of the talk, pausing from time to time to check my back trail.
    At the corner where the Absinthe House stood there were many people walking back and forth. I went into the cafe, glanced around at the crowd there and saw no familiar face. As I turned, a short, thickset man appeared close to my side.
    "This way, m'sieu." When we stepped around the corner, the Tinker was standing by a covered carriage.
    We got in, the thickset man climbed to the driver's seat, and we rolled away.
    "We have found him, I think. And there will be trouble."
    "All right," I replied, "just let's get to him in time."
    We turned into darker and darker streets. I recognized a sign here and there, and then at last we drew to a stop I heard somebody singing from a shack close by, a lonely, sad-sounding song.
    Leaving our cab we started down a dark alleyway. A cat sprang away from beneath our feet. Somebody threw a bottle from a window and it broke upon other bottles.
    We went up a few wooden steps to a small dock by the river.
    All was still. No lights shone from this dock. From the neighboring dock, an open window cast a gleam of light upon the dark, swirling waters of the river. A boat was tied there, bumping against the underpinning of the dock, and on the shore a man waited. A dark man in a striped shirt that fit tightly over powerful muscles.
    By the sound of his French he was a Cajun. He led the way down to the boat, and then we pushed off. There were three other men in the boat. I balanced myself on a thwart amidships and watched them hoist the small brown sail. There was little wind, but we caught what there was and moved out on the dark water.
    We were off to find Orrin. Please God, he'd be alive.
    "Quietly," the Tinker said, "it must be done quietly. They have more friends close by than we."
    "You have a blade?" The man in the striped shirt asked.
    "I do," I said, and no further words were spoken as we moved out along the river.
    The night was still and warm. My mouth felt dry, and I was uneasy in the boat. I was at home in a saddle, but not here. My hand went again to the knife.

    Chapter VI
    The wind died, lost in the surrounding trees and brush. The only sound was the chunk of the oar at the stern. The water shone a dull black. Overhead a few stars showed themselves faintly in the ribbon of sky the trees permitted us to see.
    We passed several boats tied up along shore, all dark and still. Twice we passed cabins where lights still showed, and from one came drunken arguing and shouting. We moved on, ghostlike, along the bayou.
    I wondered if Orrin would be alive. There was small chance of it, although the Tinker, who had access to much information, believed he was.
    I shucked my coat, wishing I had left it behind, but there had been nowhere to leave it. A man did not appear coatless in the evening at the Saint Charles.
    "Not much