Complete weird tales of.., p.1176
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1176
He said: “But you tell me Quintana robbed you this morning.”
“He did. The little Grand Duchess and the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz are my guests at Harrod Place.
“Last night I snatched the case containing these gems from Quintana’s fingers. This morning, as I offered them to the Grand Duchess, Quintana coolly stepped between us — —”
His voice became bitter and his features reddened with rage poorly controlled:
“By God, Jack, I should have shot Quintana when the opportunity offered. Twice I’ve had the chance. The next time I shall kill him any way I can. … Legitimately.”
“Of course,” said Stormont gravely. But his mind was full of the jewels which Eve had. What an whose were they, — if Quintana again had the Esthonian gems in his possession?
“Had you recovered all the jewels for the Grand Duchess?” he asked
Darragh.
“Every one, Jack. … Quintana has done me a terrible injury. I shan’t let it go. I mean to hunt that man to the end.”
Stormont, terribly perplexed, nodded.
A few minutes later, as they came out among the willows and alders on the northeast side of Star Pond, Stormont touched his comrade’s arm.
“Look at that enormous dog-otter out there in the lake!”
“Grab those dogs! They’ll strangle each other,” cried Darragh quickly. “That’s it — unleash them, Jack, and let them go!” — he was struggling with the other two couples while speaking.
And now the hounds, unleashed, lifted frantic voices. The very sky seemed full of the discordant tumult; wood and shore reverberated with the volume of convulsive and dissonant baying.
“Damn it,” said Darragh, disgusted, “ — that’s what they’ve been trailing all the while across-woods, — that devilish dog-otter yonder. … And I had hoped they were on Quintana’s trail — —”
A mass rush and scurry of crazed dogs nearly swept him off his feet, and both men caught a glimpse of a large bitch-otter taking to the lake from a ledge of rock just beyond.
Now the sky vibrated with the deafening outcry of the dogs, some taking to water, others racing madly along the shore.
Crack! The echo of the dog-otter’s blow on the water came across to them as the beat dived.
“Well, I’m in for it now,” muttered Darragh, starting along the bank toward Clinch’s Dump, to keep an eye on his dogs.
Stormont followed more leisurely.
* * * * *
IV
A few minutes before Darragh and Stormont had come out on the father edge of Star Pond, Sard, who had heard from Quintana about the big drain pipe which led from Clinch’s pantry into the lake, decided to go in and take a look at it.
He had been told all about its uses, — how Clinch, — in the event of a raid by State Troopers or Government enforcement agents, — could empty his contraband hootch into the lake if necessary, — and even could slide a barrel of ale or a keg of rum, intact, into the great tile tunnel and recover the liquor at his leisure.
Also, and grimly, Quintana had admitted that through this drain Eve
Strayer and the State Trooper, Stormont, had escaped from Clinch’s Dump.
So now Sard, full of curiosity, went back into the pantry to look at it for himself.
Almost instantly the idea occurred to him to make use of the drain for his own safety and comfort.
Why shouldn’t he sleep in the pantry, lock the door, and, in case of intrusion, — other exits being unavailable, — why shouldn’t he feel entirely safe with such an avenue of escape open?
For swimming was Sard’s single accomplishment. He wasn’t afraid of the water; he simply couldn’t sink. Swimming was the only sport he ever had indulged in. He adored it.
Also, the mere idea of sleeping alone amid that hell of trees terrified Sard. Never had he known such horror as when Quintana abandoned him in the woods. Never again would he gaze upon a tree without malignant hatred. Never again did he desire to lay eyes upon even a bush. The very sight, now, of the dusky forest filled him with loathing. Why should he not risk one night in this deserted house, — sleep well and warmly, feed well, drink his bellyfull of Clinch’s beer, before attempting the dead-line southward, where he was only too sure that patrols were riding and hiding on the lookout for the fancy gentlemen of Jose Quintana’s selected company of malefactors?
Well, here in the snug pantry were pies, crullers, bread, cheese, various dried meats, tinned vegetables, ham, bacon, fuel and range to prepare what he desired.
Here was beer, too; and doubtless ardent spirits if he could nose out the hidden demijohns and bottles.
He peered out of the pantry window at the forest, shuddered, cursed it and every separate tree in it; cursed Quintana, too, wishing him black mischance. No; it was settled. He’d take his chance here in the pantry. … And there must be a mattress somewhere upstairs.
He climbed the staircase, cautiously, discovered Clinch’s bedroom, took the mattress and blankets from the bed, and dragged them to the pantry.
Could any honest man be more tight and snug in this perilous world of the desperate and undeserving? Sard thought not. But one matter still troubled him; the lock of the pantry door had been shattered. To remedy this he moused around until he discovered some long nails and a claw-hammer. When he was ready to go to sleep he’d nail himself in. Sard chuckled again for the first time since he had set eyes upon the accursed region.
And now the sun came out from behind a low bank of solid grey cloud, and fell upon the countenance of Emanuel Sard. It warmed his parrot-nose agreeably; it cheered and enlivened him.
Not for him a night of terrors in that horrible forest which he could see through the pantry window.
A sense of security and of well-being pervaded Sard to his muddy shoes.
He even curled his fat toes in them with animal contentment.
A little snack before cooking a heavily satisfactory dinner? Certainly.
So he tucked a couple of bottles of beer under one arm, a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese under the other, and waddled out to the veranda door.
At that instant the very heavens echoed with that awful tumult which had first paralysed, then crazed him in the woods.
Bottles, bread, cheese fell from his grasp and his knees nearly collapsed under him. In the bushes on the lake shore he saw animals leaping and racing, but, in his terror, he did not recognise them for dogs.
Then, suddenly, he saw a man, close to the house, running: and another man not far behind. That he understood, and it electrified him into action.
It was too late to escape from the house now. He understood that instantly.
He ran back through the dance-hall and dining-room to the pantry; but he dared not let these intruders hear the noise of hammering.
In an agony of indecision he stood trembling, listening to the infernal racket of the dogs, and waiting for the first footstep within the house.
No step came. But, chancing to look over his shoulder, he saw a man peering through the pantry window at him.
Ungovernable terror seized Sard. Scarcely aware what he was about, he seized the edges of the big drain-pipe and crowded his obese body into it head first. He was so far and heavy that he filled the tile. To start himself down he pulled with both hands and kicked himself forward, tortoise-like, down the slanting tunnel, sticking now and then, dragging himself on and downward.
Now he began to gain momentum; he felt himself sliding, not fast but steadily.
There came a hitch somewhere; his heavy body stuck on the steep incline.
Then, as he lifted his bewildered head and stove to peer into the blackness in front, he saw four balls of green fire close to him in the darkness.
He began to slide at the same instant, and flung out both hands to check himself. But his palms slid in the slime and his body slid after.
He shrieked once as his face struck a furry obstruction where four balls of green fire flamed horribly and a fury of murderous teeth tore his face and throat to bloody tatters as he slid lower, lower, settling through crimson-dyed waters into the icy depths of Star Pond.
* * * * *
Stormont, down by the lake, called to Darragh, who appeared on the veranda:
“Oh, Jim! Both otters crawled into the drain! I think your dogs must have killed one of them under water. There’s a big patch of blood spreading off shore.”
“Yes,” said Darragh, “something has just been killed, somewhere. …
Jack!”
“Yes?”
“Pull both your guns and come up here, quick!”
* * * * *
Episode Ten
The Twilight of Mike
* * * * *
I
When Quintana turned like an enraged snake on Sard and drove him to his destruction, he would have killed and robbed the frightened diamond broker had he dared risk the shot. He had intended to do this anyway, sooner or later. But with the noise of the hunting dogs filling the forest, Quintana was afraid to fire. Yet, even then he followed Sard stealthily for a few minutes, afraid yet murderously desirous of the gems, confused by the tumult of the hounds, timid and ferocious at the same time, and loath to leave his fat, perspiring, and demoralised victim.
But the racket of the dogs proved too much for Quintana. He sheered away toward the South, leaving Sard floundering on ahead, unconscious of the treachery that had followed furtively in his panic-stricken tracks.
About an hour later Quintana was seen, challenged, chased and shot at by
State Trooper Lannis.
Quintana ran. And what with the dense growth of seedling beech and oak and the heavily falling birch and poplar leaves, Lannis first lost Quintana and then his trail.
The State Trooper had left his horse at the cross-roads near the scene of Darragh’s masked exploit, where he had stopped and robbed Sard — and now Lannis hastened back to find and mount his horse, and gallop straight into the first growth timber.
Through dim aisles of giant pine he spurred to a dead run on the chance of cutting Quintana from the eastward edge of the forest and forcing him back toward the north or west, where patrols were more than likely to hold him.
The State Trooper rode with all the reckless indifference and grace of the Western cavalryman, and he seemed to be part of the superb animal he rode — part of its bone and muscle, its litheness, its supple power — part of its vertebrae and ribs and limbs, so perfect was their bodily co-ordination.
Rifle and eyes intently alert, the rider scarce noticed his rushing mount; and if he guided with wrist and knee it was instinctive and as though the horse were guiding them both.
And now, far ahead through this primeval stand of pine, sunshine glimmered, warning of a clearing. And here Trooper Lannis pulled in his horse at the edge of what seemed to be a broad, flat meadow, vividly green.
But it was the intense, arsenical green of hair-fine grass that covers with its false velvet those quaking bogs where only a thin, crust-like skin of root-fibre and vegetation cover infinite depths of silt.
The silt had no more substance than a drop of ink colouring the water in a tumbler.
Sitting his fast-breathing mount, Lannis searched this wide, flat expanse of brilliant green. Nothing moved on it save a great heron picking its deliberate way on stilt-like legs. It was well for Quintana that he had not attempted it.
Very cautiously Lannis walked his horse along the hard ground which edged this marsh on the west. Nowhere was there any sign that Quintana had come down to the edge among the shrubs and swale grasses.
Beyond the marsh another trooper patrolled; and when at length he and
Lannis perceived each other and exchanged signals, the latter wheeled
his horse and retraced his route at an easy canter, satisfied that
Quintana had not yet broken cover.
Back through the first growth he cantered, his rifle at a ready, carefully scanning the more open woodlands, and so came again to the cross-roads.
And here stood a State Game Inspector, with a report that some sort of beagle-pack was hunting in the forest to the northwest; and very curious to investigate.
So it was arranged that the Inspector should turn road-patrol and the
Trooper become the rover.
There was no sound of dogs when Lannis rode in on the narrow, spotted trail whence he had flushed Quintana into the dense growth of saplings that bordered it.
His horse made little noise on the moist layer of leaves and forest mould; he listened hard for the sound of hounds as he rode; heard nothing save the chirr of red squirrels, the shriek of a watching jay, or the startling noise of falling acorns rapping and knocking on great limbs in their descent to the forest floor.
Once, very, very far away westward in the direction of Star Pond he fancied he heard a faint vibration in the air that might have been hounds baying.
He was right. And at that very moment Sard was dying, horribly, among two trapped otters as big and fierce as the dogs that had driven them into the drain.
But Lannis knew nothing of that as he moved on, mounted, along the spotted trail, now all a yellow glory of birch and poplar which made the woodland brilliant as though lighted by yellow lanterns.
Somewhere among the birches, between him and Star Pond, was Harrod
Place. And the idea occurred to him that Quintana might have ventured
to ask food and shelter there. Yet, that was not likely because Trooper
Stormont had called him that morning on the telephone from the Hatchery
Lodge.
No; the only logical retreat for Quintana was northward to the mountains, where patrols were plenty and fire-wardens on duty in every watch-tower. Or, the fugitive could make for Drowned Valley by a blind trail which, Stormont informed him, existed but which Lannis never had heard of.
However, to reassure himself, Lannis rode as far as Harrod Place, and found game wardens on duty along the line.
Then he turned west and trotted his mount down to the hatchery, where he saw Ralph Wier, the Superintendent, standing outside the lodge talking to his assistant, George Fry.
When Lannis rode up on the opposite side of the brook, he called across to Wier:
“You haven’t seen anything of any crooked outfit around here, have you,
Ralph? I’m looking for that kind.”
“See here,” said the Superintendent, “I don’t know but George Fry may have seen one of your guys. Come over and he’ll tell you what happened an hour ago.”
Trooper Lannis pivotted his horse and put him to the brook with scarcely any take-off; and the splendid animal cleared the water like a deer and came cantering up to the door of the lodge.
Fry’s boyish face seemed agitated; he looked up at the State Trooper with the flush of tears in his gaze and pointed at the rifle Lannis carried:
“If I’d had that,” he said excitedly, “I’d have brought in a crook, you bet!”
“Where did you see him?” inquired Lannis.
“Jest west of the Scaur, about an hour and a half ago. Wier and me was stockin’ the head of Scaur Brook with fingerlings. There’s more good water — two miles of it — to the east, and all it needed was a fish-ladder around Scaur Falls.
“So I toted in cement and sand and grub last week, and I built me a shanty on the Scaur, and I been laying up a fish-way around the falls. So that’s how I come there — —” He clicked his teeth and darted a furious glance at the woods. “By God,” he said, “I was such a fool I didn’t take no rifle. All I had was an axe and a few traps. … I wasn’t going to let the mink get our trout whatever you fellows say,” he added defiantly, “ — and law or no law — —”
“Get along with your story, young man,” interrupted Lannis; “ — you can spill the rest out to the Commissioner.”
“All right, then. This is the way it happened down to the Scaur. I was eating lunch by the fish-stairs, looking up at ’em and kind of planning how to save cement, and not thinking about anybody being near me, when something made me turn my head. … You know how it is in the woods. … I kinda felt somebody near. And, by cracky! — there stood a man with a big, black automatic pistol, and he had a bead on my belly.
“`Well,’ said I, `what’s troubling you and your gun, my friend?’ — I was that astonished.
“He was a slim-built, powerful guy with a foreign face and voice and way. He wanted to know if he had the honour — as he put it — to introduce himself to a detective or game constable, or a friend of Mike Clinch.
“I told him I wasn’t any of these, and that I worked in a private hatchery; and he called me a liar.”
Young Fry’s face flushed and his voice began to quiver:
“That’s the way he misused me; and he backed me into the shanty and I had to sit down with both hands up. Then he filled my pack-basket with grub, and took my axe, and strapped my kit onto his back. … And talking all the time in his mean, sneery, foreign way — and I guess he thought he was funny, for he laughed at his own jokes.
“He told me his name was Quintana, and that he ought to shoot me for a rat, but he wouldn’t because of the stink. Then he said he was going to do a quick job that the police were too cowardly to do; — that he was a-going to find Mike Clinch down to Drowned Valley and kill him; and if he could catch Mike’s daughter, too, he’d spoil her face for life — —”
The boy was breathing so hard and his rage made him so incoherent that
Lannis took him by the shoulder and shook him:
“What next?” demanded the Trooper impatiently. “Tell your story and quit thinking how you were misused!”
“He told me to stay in the shanty for an hour or he’d do for me good,” cried Fry. … “Once I got up and went to the door; and there he stood by the brook, wolfing my lunch with both hands. I tell you he cursed and drove me, like a dog, inside with his big pistol — my God — like a dog. …
“Then, the next time I took a chance he was gone. … And I beat it here to get me a rifle — —” The boy broke down and sobbed: “He drove me around — like a dog — he did — —”
