Olga had come out from behind the rocks and was standing in stunned horror watching the fight below. Now she awoke suddenly to her own peril at the sight of the madman charging up the slope. She drew the pistol Gordon had taken from him and opened fire. She was not a very good shot. Three bullets missed, the fourth killed the horse, and then the gun jammed. Gordon was running up the slope as the Apaches of his native Southwest run, and behind him streamed a swarm of Rualla. There was not a loaded gun in the whole horde.
Osman took a shocking fall when his horse turned a somersault under him, but rose, bruised and bloody, with Gordon still some distance away. But the Turk had to play hide-and-seek for a few moments among the rocks with his prey before he was able to grasp her hair and twist her screaming to her knees, and then he paused an instant to enjoy her despair and terror. That pause was his undoing.
As he lifted his saber to strike off her head, steel clanged loud on steel. A numbing shock ran through his arm, and his blade was knocked from his hand. His weapon rang on the hot flints. He whirled to face the blazing slits that were El Borak’s eyes. The muscles stood out in cords and ridges on Gordon’s sun burnt forearm in the intensity of his passion.
“Pick it up, you filthy dog,” he said between his teeth.
Osman hesitated, stooped, caught up the saber and slashed at Gordon’s legs without straightening. Gordon leaped back, then sprang in again the instant his toes touched the earth. His return was as paraly- zingly quick as the death-leap of a wolf. It caught Osman off balance, his sword extended. Gordon’s blade hissed as it cut the air, slicing through flesh, gritting through bone.
The Turk’s head toppled from the severed neck and fell at Gordon’s feet, the headless body collapsing in a heap. With an excess spasm of hate, Gordon kicked the head savagely down the slope.
“Oh!” Olga turned away and hid her face. But the girl knew that Osman deserved any fate that could have overtaken him. Presently she was aware of Gordon’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder and she looked up, ashamed of her weakness. The sun was just dipping below the western ridges. Musa came limping up the slope, bloodstained but radiant.
“The dogs are all dead, effendi!” he cried, industriously shaking a plundered watch, in an effort to make it run. “Such of our warriors as still live are faint from strife, and many sorely wounded. There is none to command now but thou.”
“Sometimes problems settle themselves,” mused Gordon. “But at a ghastly price. If the Rualla hadn’t made that rush, which was the death of Hassan and Mitkhal—oh, well, such things are in the hands of Allah, as the Arabs say. A hundred better men than I have died today, but by the decree of some blind Fate, I live.”
Gordon looked down on the wounded men. He turned to Musa.
“We must load the wounded on camels,” he said, “and take them to the camp at the Walls where there’s water and shade. Come.”
As they started down the slope, he said to Olga:
“I’ll have to stay with them till they’re settled at the Walls, then I must start for the coast. Some of the Rualla will be able to ride, though, and you need have no fear of them. They’ll escort you to the nearest Turkish outpost.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Then I’m not your prisoner?”
He laughed.
“I think you can help Feisal more by carrying out your original instructions of supplying misleading information to the Turks! I don’t blame you for not confiding even in me. You have my deepest admiration, for you’re playing the most dangerous game a woman can.”
“Oh!” She felt a sudden warm flood of relief and gladness that he should know she was not really an enemy. Musa was well out of earshot. “I might have known you were high enough in Feisal’s councils to know that I really am—”
“Gloria Willoughby, the cleverest, most daring secret agent the British government employs,” he murmured. The girl impulsively placed her slender fingers in his, and hand in hand they went down the slope together.
ALWAYS COMES EVENING, by Robert E. Howard
Riding down the road at evening with the stars for steed and shoon
I have heard an old man singing underneath a copper moon;
“God, who gemmed with topaz twilights, opal portals of the day,
“On your amaranthine mountains, why make human souls of clay?
“For I rode the moon-mare’s horses in the glory of my youth,
“Wrestled with the hills at sunset—till I met brass-tinctured Truth.
“Till I saw the temples topple, till I saw the idols reel,
“Till my brain had turned to iron, and my heart had turned to steel.
“Satan, Satan, brother Satan, fill my soul with frozen fire;
“Feed with hearts of rose-white women ashes of my dead desire.
“For my road runs out in thistles and my dreams have turned to dust.
“And my pinions fade and falter to the raven-wings of rust.
“Truth has smitten me with arrows and her hand is in my hair—
“Youth, she hides in yonder mountains—go and seek her, if you dare!
“Work your magic, brother Satan, fill my brain with fiery spells.
“Satan, Satan, brother Satan, I have known your fiercest Hells.”
Riding down the road at evening when the wind was on the sea,
I have heard an old man singing, and he sang most drearily.
Strange to hear, when dark lakes shimmer to the wailing of the loon,
Amethystine Homer singing under evening’s copper moon.
THE MORGUE, by Our Readers
Dan Nelson writes:
Just finished the book edition [of #3] and I was impressed with the range of the writing. I was kind of expecting some fast paced stories but I found a good variety of tales, “Forbidden Fruit” and “Moon-Calves” especially. “Pirates’ Gold” was more in line with what I expected and was a real good read. Thanks. (“Floating Island,” by Philip M. Fisher, was pretty cool too.)
Thanks, Dan. We try to include a wide variety of stories in every issue of ADVENTURE TALES. Let us know what you liked in this one, too! — The Editor.
*****
Nick Kismet writes:
I was pleased to discover that the pulp genre is still alive, if very inconspicuous.
I can’t seem to find any information about submission of new content. Is Adventure Tales open to new fiction from unpublished talent (and I use that term loosely) or is it mostly a venue for reprinted classics?
*****
Unfortunately, ADVENTURE TALES is going to be mostly reprints. The one fictional exception may be a novel by Mike Resnick, which we are talking about serializing. It’s the fourth of his Lucifer Jones books…which falls smack dab in the middle of what we’re trying to do with AT. — The Editor.
*****
W.M. Mott writes:
Recently I was contacted by a guy representing a web-based magazine called “Adventure Fiction.”
He solicited stories and artwork, and an interview, then disappeared. Even his web site vanished.
Has anyone here heard of this “web magazine”? Was it perhaps in conflict with your Adventure Tales magazine?
Any info would be appreciated.
*****
I have never heard of this web zine, and I can assure you that its disappearance had nothing to do with ADVENTURE TALES. We encourage all new publications dealing with adventure fiction, pulp fiction…or come to think of it, fiction of any kind!
Any reader with information about this lost publication should feel free to post a note to W.M. Mott about it on the ADVENTURE TALES message board at: www.wildsidepress.com — The Editor.
THE END
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Adventure Tales, Volume 4 Page 19