Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF

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    Bloody Jack Randall’s schooner. Of course, he was never called Bloody Jack to his face, but behind his back they knew him by that name. He had killed a man in a saloon brawl at Port Moresby. There’d been a man shot in Kalgoorlie, but insufficient evidence released Randall. He was reported to have broken jail in New Caledonia after killing a guard.
    After he was aboard, it was Randall’s mate, a lean, wiry man with haggard features, who kicked the sack. “Hey? What you got in there? It looks mighty heavy.”
    “Gold.”
    It was a sullen, heavy day with thick clouds overhead and a small sea running. Kahler’s eyes went to the sack again. “Gold?” He was incredulous.
    “Yes.” He slid his knife into his hand, point toward them, cutting edge uppermost. “This weighs about a pound. I measured the weight by this, and it is more than they thought.”
    “They?”
    “A man in Misima asked me to deliver it to his granddaughter in Sydney.”
    “What kind of a damned fool would do that?” Kahler asked.
    “A man who knew who he could trust.” He glanced at Randall. “Where you bound?”
    Randall hesitated. “East,” he said finally. “We been scouting around.”
    “How about Woodlark? I’ll pay my passage.”
    “All right.” Randall walked forward and gave the change of course to the Bugi seaman. There were four of the Bugis, some of the best sailors among the islands; there was Randall himself, Kahler, and the big man who rowed the boat. That would be Sanguo Pete, a half-caste.
    Taking his sack, he walked forward and sat down with his back against the foremast.
    Kahler came forward. “We’ll have chow pretty quick. One of those Bugis is a first-rate cook.” He glanced down at him. “How’d you survive on that reef? You must be tough.”
    “I get along.”
    “By this time they probably figure you’re dead,” Kahler said.
    “Maybe.”
    He knew what they were thinking. If something happened to him now, no one would know any better. Well, he promised himself, nothing was going to happen. He was going to meet Douglas at Woodlark.
    When they went below to eat, he let them go first. He paused for a moment near one of the Bugi seamen. His Indonesian was just marketplace talk, but he could manage. He indicated the sack. “It is a trust,” he said, “from a dying man. He has a granddaughter who needs this.” He gestured toward the reef. “The sea was kind,” he said.
    “You are favored,” the Bugi replied.
    “If there is trouble—?”
    “We are men of the sea. The troubles of white men are the troubles of white men.”
    He went below. There was a plate of food at the empty place. Randall had not begun to eat. Coolly, before Randall could object, he switched plates with him.
    “What’s the matter?” Randall demanded. “Don’t you trust me?”
    “I trust nobody,” he said. “Nobody, Mr. Randall.”
    “You know me?”
    “I know you. Douglas told me about you.”
    They exchanged glances. “Douglas? What do you know about him?”
    “I’m his second mate. I’m joining him at Woodlark. Then we’ll arrange to get this”—he kicked the sack—“to that girl in Sydney.”
    “Why bother?” Kahler said. “A man could have himself a time with that much gold.”
    “And it will buy that girl an education.”
    “Hell! She’ll get along—somehow.”
    The food was good, and when supper was over, he took his gold and went on deck. Randall was a very tough, dangerous man. So were the others, and it was three to one. He could have used Douglas or Hildebrand. Or Charlie—most of all, Charlie.
    The sails hung slack, and the moon was out. There was a Bugi at the wheel, another on lookout in the bow. These were tricky, dangerous waters, much of them unsurveyed. He settled himself against the mainmast for a night of watching.
    The storm that had wrecked his boat had blown him east, far off his course. It could be no less than a hundred miles to Misima and probably a good bit more.
    The hours