Complete weird tales of.., p.1168
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1168
* * * * *
III
When Quintana disappeared among the tamarracks, Leverett ventured to rise to his knees. As he crouched there, peering after Quintana, a man came swiftly out of the forest behind him and nearly stumbled over him.
Recognition was instant and mutual as the man jerked the trap-robber to his feet, stifling the muffled yell in his throat.
“I want that packet you picked up on Clinch’s veranda,” said Hal Smith.
“M-my God,” stammered Leverett, “Quintana just took it off me. He ain’t been gone a minute — —”
“You lie!”
“I ain’t lyin’. Look at his foot-marks there in the mud!”
“Quintana?”
“Yaas, Quintana! He tuk my gun, too — —”
“Which way!” whispered Hal Smith fiercely, shaking Leverett till his haws wagged.
“Drowned Valley. … Lemme loose! — I’m chokin’ — —”
Smith pushed him aside.
“You rat,” he said, “if you’re lying to me I’ll come back and settle your affair. And Kloon’s, too!”
“Quintana shot Jake and stuck him into a sink-hole!” snivelled Leverett, breaking down and sobbing: “ — oh, Gawd — Gawd — he’s down under all that black mud with his brains spillin’ out — —”
Bu Smith was already gone, running lightly along the string of footprints which led straight away across slime and sphagnum toward the head of Drowned Valley.
In the first clump of hard-wood trees Smith saw Quintana. He had halted an he was fumbling at the twine which bound a flat, paper-wrapped packet.
He did not start when Smith’s sharp warning struck his ear: “Don’t move!
I’ve got you over my rifle, Quintana!”
Quintana’s fingers instantly ceased operations. Then, warily, he lifted his head and looked into the muzzle of Smith’s rifle.
“Ah, bah!” he said tranquilly. “There were three of you, then.”
“Lay that packet on the ground.”
“My frien’ — —”
“Drop it or I’ll drop you!”
Quintana carefully placed the packet on a bed of vivid moss.
“Now your gun!” continued Smith.
Quintana shrugged and laid Leverett’s rifle beside the packet.
“Kneel down with your hands up and your back toward me!” said Smith.
“My frien’ — —”
“Down with you!”
Quintana dropped gracefully into the humiliating attitude popularly indicative of prayerful supplication. Smith walked slowly up behind him, relieved him of two automatics and a dirk.
“Stay put,” he said sharply, as Quintana started to turn his head. Then he picked up the packet with its loosened string, slipped it into his side pocket, gathered together the arsenal which had decorated Quintana, and so, loaded with weapons, walked away a few paces and seated himself on a fallen log.
Here he pocketed both automatics, shoved the sheathed dirk into his belt, placed the captured rifle handy, after examining the magazine, and laid his own weapon across his knees.
“You may turn around now, Quintana,” he said amiably.
Quintana lowered his arms and started to rise.
“Sit down!” said Smith.
Quintana seated himself on the moss, facing Smith.
“Now, my gay and nimble thimble-rigger,” sad Smith genially, “while I take ten minutes’ rest we’ll have a little polite conversation. Or, rather, a monologue. Because I don’t want to hear anything from you.”
He settled himself comfortably on the log:
“Let me assemble for you, Senor Quintana, the interesting history of the jewels which so sparklingly repose in the packet in my pocket.
“In the first place, as you know, Monsieur Quintana, the famous Flaming
Jewel and the other gems contained in this packet of mine, belonged to
Her Highness the Grand Duchess Theodorica of Esthonia.
“Very interesting. More interesting still — along comes Don Jose Quintana and his celebrated gang of international thieves, and steals from the Grand Duchess of Esthonia the Flaming Jewel and all her rubies, emeralds and diamonds. Yes?”
“Certainly,” said Quintana, with a polite inclination of acknowledgment.
“Bon! Well, then, still more interesting to relate, a gentleman named
Clinch helps himself to these famous jewels. How very careless of you,
Mr. Quintana.”
“Careless, certainly,” assented Quintana politely.
“Well,” said Smith, laughing, “Clinch was more careless still. The robber baron, Sir Jacobus Kloon, swiped, — as Froissart has it, — the Esthonian gems, and under agreement to deliver them to you, I suppose, thought better of it and attempted to abscond. Do you get me, Herr Quintana?”
“Gewiss.”
“Yes, and you got Jake Kloon, I hear,” laughed Smith.
“No.”
“Didn’t you kill Kloon?”
“No.”
“Oh, pardon. The mistake was natural. You merely robbed Kloon and
Leverett. You should have killed them.”
“Yes,” said Quintana slowly, “I should have. It was my mistake.”
“Signor Quintana, it is human for the human crook to err. Sooner or later he always does it. And then the Piper comes around holding out two itching palms.”
“Mr. Smith,” said Quintana pleasantly, “you are an unusually agreeable gentleman for a thief. I regret that you do not see your way to an amalgamation of interests with myself.”
“As you say, Quintana mea, I am somewhat unusual. For example, what do you suppose I am going to do with this packet in my pocket?”
“Live,” replied Quintana tersely.
“Live, certainly,” laughed Smith, “but not on the proceeds of this coup-de-main. Non pas! I am going to return this packet to its rightful owner, the Grand Duchess Theodorica of Esthonia. And what do you think of that, Quintana?”
Quintana smiled.
“You do not believe me?” inquired Smith.
Quintana smiled again.
“Allons, bon!” exclaimed Smith, rising. “It’s the unusual that happens in life, my dear Quintana. And now we’ll take a little inventory of these marvellous gems before we part. … Sit very, very still, Quintana, — unless you want to lie stiller still. … I’ll let you take a modest peep at the Flaming Jewel — —” busily unwrapping the packet— “just one little peep, Quintana — —”
He unwrapped the paper. Two cakes of sugar-milk chocolate lay within.
Quintana turned white, then deeply, heavily red. Then he smiled in ghastly fashion:
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “as you have just said, sit, it is usually the unusual which happens in the world.”
* * * * *
Episode Six
The Jewel Aflame
* * * * *
I
Mike Clinch and his men “drove” Star Peak, and drew a blanket covert.
* * * * *
There was a new shanty atop, camp debris, plenty of signs of recent occupation everywhere, — hot embers in which offal still smouldered, bottles odorous of claret dregs, and an aluminum culinary outfit, unwashed, as though Quintana and his men had departed in haste.
For in the still valley below, Mike Clinch squatted beside the runway he had chosen, a cocked rifle across his knees.
The glare in his small, pale eyes waned and flared as distant sounds broke the forest silence, grew vague, died out, — the fairy clatter of a falling leaf, the sudden scurry of a squirrel, a feathery rustle of swift wings in play or combat, the soft crash of a rotten bough sagging earthward to enrich the soil that grew it.
And, as Clinch squatted there, murderously intent, ever the fixed obsession burned in his fever brain, stirring his thin lips incessant muttering, — a sort of soundless invocation, part chronicle, part prayer:
“O God A’mighty, in your big, swell mansion up there, all has went contrary with me sence you let that there damn millionaire, Harrod, come into this here forest. … He went and built unto himself an habitation, and he put up a wall of law all around me where I was earnin’ a lawful livin’ in Thy nice, clean wilderness. … And now comes this here Quintana and robs my girlie. … I promised her mother I’d make a lady of her little Eve. … I loved my wife, O Lord. … Once she showed me a piece in the Bible, — I ain’t never found it sence, — but it said: `And the woman, she fled into the wilderness where there was a place prepared for her of God.’ … That’s what you wrote into your own Bible, O God! You can’t go back on it. I seen it.
“And now I wanta to ask, What place did you prepare for my Eve? What spot have you reference to? You didn’t mean my `Dump,’ did you? Why, Lord, that ain’t no place for no lady. … And now Quintana has went and robbed me of what I’d saved up for Eve. … Does that go with Thee, O Lord? No, it don’t. And it don’t go with me, neither. I’m a-goin’ to git Quintana. Then I’m a-goin’ to git them two minks that robbed my girlie, — I am! … Jake Kloon, he done it in cahoots with Earl Leverett; and Quintana set ’em on. And they gotta die, O Lord of Israel, them there Egyptians is about to hop the twig. … I ain’t aimin’ to be mean to nobody. I buy hootch of them that runs it. I eat mountain mutton in season and out. I trade with law-breakers, I do. But, Lord, I gotta get my girlie outa here; and Harrod he walled me in with the chariots and spears of Egypt, till I nigh went wild. … And now comes Quintana, and here I be a-lyin’ out to get him so’s my girlie can become a lady, same’s them fine folks with all their butlers and automobiles and what-not — —”
A far crash in the forest stilled his twitching lips and stiffened every iron muscle. As he lifted his rifle, Sid Hone came into the glade.
“Yahoo! Yahoo!” he called. “Where be you, Mike?”
Clinch slowly rose, grasping his rifle, his small, grey eyes ablaze.
“Where’s Quintana?” he demanded.
“H’ain’t you seen nobody?”
“No.”
In the intense silence other sounds broke sharply in the sunset forest;
Harvey Chase’s halloo rang out from the rocks above; Blommers and the
Hastings boys came slouching through the ferns.
Byron Hastings greeted Clinch with upflung gun: “Me and Jim heard a shot away out on Drowned Valley,” he announced. “Was you out that way, Mike.”
“No.”
One by one the men who had driven Star Peak lounged up in the red sunset light, gathering around Clinch and wiping the sweat from sun-reddened faces.
“Someone’s in Drowned Valley,” repeated Byron. “Them minks slid off’n
Star in a hurry, I reckon, judgin’ how they left their shanty. Phew!
It stunk! They had French hootch, too.”
“Mebby Leverett and Kloon told ’em we was fixin’ to visit them,” suggested Blommers.
“They didn’t know,” said Clinch.
“Where’s Hal Smith?” inquired Hone.
Clinch made no reply. Blommers silently gnawed a new quid from the remains of a sticky plug.
“Well,” inquired Jim Hastings finally, “do we quit, Mike, or do we still-hunt in Drowned Valley?”
“Not me, at night,” remarked Blommers drily.
“Not amongst them sink-holes,” added Hone.
Suddenly Clinch turned and stared at him. Then the deadly light from his little eyes shone on the others one by one.
“Boys,” he said, “I gotta get Quintana. I can’t never sleep another wink till I get that man. Come on. Act up like gents all. Let’s go.”
Nobody stirred.
“Come on,” repeated Clinch softly. But his lips shrank back, twitching.
As they looked at him they saw his teeth.
“All right, all right,” growled Hone, shouldering his rifle with a jerk.
The Hastings boys, young and rash, shuffled into the trail. Blommers hesitated, glanced askance at Clinch, and instantly made up his mind to take a chance with the sink-holes rather than with Clinch.
“God A’mighty, Mike, what be you aimin;’ to do?” faltered Harvey.
“I’m aimin’ to stop the inlet and outlet to Drowned Valley, Harvey,” replied Clinch in his pleasant voice. “God is a-goin’ to deliver Quintana into my hands.”
“All right. What next?”
“Then,” continued Clinch, “I cal’late to set down and wait.”
“How long?”
“Ask God, boys. I don’t know. All I know is that whatever is livin’ in Drowned Valley at this hour has gotta live and die there. For it can’t never live to come outen that there morass walkin’ on two legs like a real man.”
He moved slowly along the file of sullen men, his rifle a-trail in one huge fist.
“Boys,” he said, “I got first. There ain’t no sink-hole deep enough o drowned me while Eve needs me. … And my little girlie needs me bad. … After she gits what’s her’n, then I don’t care no more. …” He looked up into the sky, where the last ashes of sunset faded from the zenith. … “Then I don’t care,” he murmured. “Like’s not I’ll creep away like some shot-up critter, n’kinda find some lone, safe spot, n’kinda fix me f’r a long nap. … I guess that’ll be the way … when Eve’s a lady down to Noo York ‘r’som’ers — —” he added vaguely.
Then, still looking up at the fading heavens, he moved forward, head lifted, silent, unhurried, with the soundless, stealthy, and certain tread of those who walk unseeing and asleep.
* * * * *
II
Clinch had not taken a dozen strides before Hal Smith loomed up ahead in the rosy dusk, driving in Leverett before him.
An exclamation of fierce exultation burst from Clinch’s thin lips as he flung out one arm, indicating Smith and his clinking prisoner:
“Who was that gol-dinged catamount that suspicioned Hal? I wa’nt worried none, neither. Has a gent. Mebbe he sticks up folks, too, but he’s a gent. And gents is honest or they ain’t gents.”
Smith came up at his easy, tireless gait, hustling Leverett along with prods from gun-butt or muzzle, as came handiest.
The prisoner turned a ghastly visage on Clinch, who ignored him.
“Got my packet, Hal?” he demanded.
Smith poked Leverett with his rifle: “Tune up,” he said; “tell Clinch your story.”
As a caged rat looks death in the face, his ratty wits working like lightning and every atom of cunning and ferocity alert for attack or escape, so the little, mean eyes of Earl Leverett became fixed on Clinch like two immobile and glassy beats of jet.
“G’wan,” said Clinch softly, “spit it out.”
“Jake done it,” muttered Leverett, thickly.
“Done what?”
“Stole that there packet o’ yourn — whatever there was into it.”
“Who put him up to it?”
“A fella called Quintana.”
“What was there in it for Jake?” inquired Clinch pleasantly.
“Ten thousand.”
“How about you?”
“I told ’em I wouldn’t touch it. Then they pulled their guns on me, and
I was scared to squeal.”
“So that was the way?” asked Clinch in his even, reassuring voice.
Leverett’s eyes travelled stealthily around the circle of men, then reverted to Clinch.
“I dassn’t touch it,” he said, “but I dassn’t squeal. … I as huntin’ onto Drowned Valley when Jake meets up with me.”
“`I got the packet,’ he sez, `and I’m a-going to double criss-cross
Quintana, I am, and beat it. Don’t you wish you was whacks with me?’
“`No,’ sez I, `honesty is my policy, no matter what they tell about me. S’help me God, I ain’t never robbed no trap and I ain’t no skin thief, whatever lies folks tell. All I ever done was run a little hootch, same’s everybody.’”
He licked his lips furtively, his cold, bright eyes fastened on Clinch.
“G’wan Earl,” nodded the latter, “heave her up.”
“That’s all. I sez, `Good-bye, Jake. An’ if you heed me warning’, ill-gotten gains ain’t a-going to prosper nobody.’ That’s what I said to Jake Kloon, the last solemn words I spoke to that there man now in his bloody grave — —”
“Hey?” demanded Clinch.
“That’s where Jake is,” repeated Leverett. “Why, so help me, I wa’nt gone ten yards when, bang! goes a gun, and I see this here Quintana come outen the busy, I do, and walk up to Jake and frisk him and Jake still a-kickin’ the moss to slivers. Yessir, that’s what I seen.”
“G’wan.”
“Yessir. … ‘N’then Quintana he shoved Jake into a sink-hole. Thaswot I seen with my own two eyes. Yessir. ‘N’then Quintana he run off, ‘n’I jest set down in the trail, I did; ‘n’then Hal come up and acted like I had stole your packet, he did; ‘n’then I told him what Quintana done. ‘N’Hal, he takes after Quintana, but I don’t guess he meets up with him, for he come back and ketched holt o’ me, ‘n’he druv me in like I was a caaf, he did. ‘N’here I be.”
The dusk in the forest had deepened so that the men’s faces had become mere blotches of grey.
Smith said to Clinch: “That’s his story, Mike. But I preferred he should tell it to you himself, so I brought him along. … Did you drive Star Peak?”
“There wa’nt nothin’ onto it,” said Clinch very softly. Then, of a sudden, his shadowy visage became contorted and he jerked up his rifle and threw a cartridge into the magazine.
“You dirty louse!” he roared at Leverett, “you was into this, too, a-robbin’ my little Eve — —”
“Run!” yelled somebody, giving Leverett a violent shove into the woods.
In the darkness and confusion, Clinch shouldered his way out of the circle and fired at the crackling noise that marked Leverett’s course, — fired again, lower, and again as a distant crash revealed the frenzied flight of the trap-robber. After he had fired a fourth shot, somebody struck up his rifle.
“Aw,” said Jim Hastings, “that ain’t no good. You act up like a kid,
