The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Steele’s foot lashed out as he hit the floor. There was a gasp of exhaled breath. The broad blade of a kukri savagely probed the gloom. Steele’s fist warded off the descending wrist—but before he could seize the wiry assassin, Achmet had cleared the threshold.

  A wrathful yell—a crash—the splintering of wood—the tinkle of steel—a cry of dismay that ended in a gurgling groan—and Achmet, cursing in polished Bushtu, struck a match.

  The intruder was dead: a wiry, grizzled Burmese with straggling wisps of gray beard. His brown skin was intricately tattooed, and his body gleamed from freshly applied palm oil. He was nude save for a breech-clout.

  Steele assured Achmet that the fellow must be a dacoit (robber). The Afghan respectfully agreed: but Steele knew that his comrade at arms had a private and dissenting opinion.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Out with it, Achmet!” Steele finally demanded. “What makes you think he’s not a dacoit?”

  “Billahi! Since when does a dacoit sit in the darkness making music while his fellow seeks you with a knife? Nay, by Allah, that was not the music of the pwè which you heard—that was devil music. The pwè has been over these several hours—I? Wallah, I was otherwise engaged—I had no thought—by Allah, it is a disgrace to my beard that this thing should have happened, but by your head, I had no thought—”

  “Say no more about it,” chuckled Steele. “After all, there was doubtless certain unfinished business which required your attention after the pwè, but then what?”

  “As my lord suggested, when that was done which was to be done, I returned and heard, and I liked not that sound which came from the shadows. So I smote the musician, and then I saw another—Wallah, I will here and now kill that son of a noseless mother!”

  The Afghan’s pious intent, however, was wasted. Neither musician nor instrument was lying where both had dropped.

  “Get Maung Hkin—the headman of the village,” said Steele. “At once.”

  The Afghan stalked cursing into the moonlight. He knew no Burmese—other than what he might have learned from Panbyu—but there was no doubt that he would arouse the entire village and thus, perforce, the headman as well. Steele had learned to put much trust in Afghan directness.

  And within a very few minutes Maung Hkin entered the compound, followed by half the inhabitants of Hlai-bin-doung. They were trotting to keep up with Achmet’s leg-stretching strides.

  “May pigs befoul my grave if I destroy not all of this village!” growled Achmet as he stalked across the compound. “Wallah, I have here the father of all these apes! Shall I slay him now?”

  Steele, however, was willing enough to dispense with further slayings; and he mustered up enough of the tricky Burmese language to make it clear to the headman that there had been odd doings in the dâk bungalow. But one glance at the deceased was sufficient for Maung Hkin.

  “This man,” he explained, “is an apprentice wizard. Behold—he is tattooed with inns to protect him against knives, bullets, poison, and lightning. Fortunately he wore no inn to protect him against a broken neck and a crushed skull.

  “And as for that music: that was a charm to keep you from awakening. It seems that you were taken for a rival wizard. Or perhaps he wanted your head to use in preparing a spell. But it is most likely that he is a servant of the demon leopard, sent to protect the devouring nat against your skill.”

  That was the headman’s story. He seemed to believe it, and it was obvious that nothing could change it. It was quite irrational, and thus entirely in keeping with the beliefs of devil-haunted Burma, where Indian, Mongolian, and indigenous fiends do their best to oppress the inhabitants of the mountains and forests. But Maung Hkin had one constructive hint: “Let no one know the hour of your birth. And there is a certain but dangerous way of defending yourself against sohns. Go up the Chindwin to Kalay Thoung Toht—the-Small-Town-at-the-Top-of-the-Sandbank. The inhabitants are supernaturally gifted. Appeal to the king of wizards who lives there. He will summon the sohn who is working against you, demand an explanation, and if he can show no just cause, he will be punished.

  “But it is only fair to warn you that many bewitched people who have made that pilgrimage have disappeared.”

  “Thanks,” acknowledged Steele. “But as long as wizards’ heads are readily broken I don’t think well bother to go to Kalay Thoung Toht.”

  In less than an hour breakfast would be served, the elephants loaded, and the ponies saddled in preparation for the last lap of the trip to the teak camp at the head of the Kyoukmee Choung. Steele sat down and drew up a brief report to be sent to Eldon Powell in Rangoon. He outlined the circumstances, and concluded:

  “Your were-leopard has human allies. I am inclined to think that the depredations of the beast are directly designed to interfere with your floating teak logs down in the coming freshets. I suggest that you investigate your neighboring competitors while Achmet and I put a crimp into the local guild of wizards.”

  * * * *

  Steele and Achmet cleared the compound at sunrise; but it was not until fourteen hours later that they reached their destination at the teak camp of the Irrawaddy Company. The corporation bungalow was in a grassy plain. Near it were storehouses, stables, and a cluster of huts for the native woodmen; and beyond was the expanse of dense forest, towering teak interspersed with pyingado, padauk, and other unreserved or “jungle” woods not subject to Government regulation.

  The kansammah (headman), Sayo-Myo, emerged to receive Steele and Achmet. Kirby, the camp manager, was out in the forest, hunting the man-eating leopard. And while Sayo-Myo set about preparing supper, Steele made a round of the camp, watching the unloading of the baggage and the grooming of the shaggy Shan ponies. The day’s work was done; the elephants had been fed. Some were bathing in the creek nearby, others were crashing through the underbrush, foraging to supplement their evening meal.

  The camp, Steele observed, had been demoralized by the leopard’s raids. The loggers and mahouts squatted about their fires, furtively eyeing the darkness beyond; and while Steele could scarcely understand their low, sing-song conversation, scattering phrases told him of the fear that lurked. There was talk of inns, and amulets to ward off the destructive night demon; and there was more talk of desertion, and certain mutterings about a sacred grove…

  Kirby, it was obvious, was in charge of a simmering nightmare.

  Supper was more than adequate, despite can-opener cookery. The camp commissary was well stocked, and the cook was competent; yet Kirby, oppressed by the inroads of the marauder, had at the first sign of dusk plunged alone into the forest, ignoring the meal that awaited him.

  “He won’t last very long at that rate,” Steele reflected. “One white man, surrounded by superstitious natives, and for months out of contact with civilization—no damn wonder it gets his goat.”

  Ten o’clock, and still no sign of Kirby.

  “Achmet,” Steele finally said, “grab yourself some sleep. I’ll wait until midnight, and then wake you for the next watch.”

  “No, by Allah! Last night my face was blackened. If there are any wandering wizards tonight—”

  The Afghan loosened the pistol in his holster, and shifted the Khorassan tulwar whose silver hilt gleamed from his belt.

  “Without doubt,” he continued, “Kirby Sahib has been eaten by this shaitan-leopard. Do you therefore sleep, while I stand guard.”

  And seeing that Achmet would stubbornly insist upon redeeming himself for the previous night’s distraction, Steele let him stand guard.

  Steele’s sleep was sound, but it was violently interrupted. An agonized yell brought him to his feet at a bound. Then savage growls, and a howling panic from the woodcutters’ huts. Steele seized his loaded rifle. “God, by the very God, by the One True God!” roared Achmet as Steele followed him, clearing the veranda at a bound. “Hear the accursed beast!”

  As
he caught up with Achmet, Steele thrust a flashlight into the Afghan’s hand. “Pick him out while I plug him!”

  They crossed the clearing in a matter of seconds. The savage snarling of the marauder, and the gurgling, strangled cries of the victim guided them. Achmet turned the beam of the flashlight toward the sound and the phosphorescent eyes that gleamed in the gloom.

  “In the great name of Allah I take refuge from Shaytan the Stoned!” exclaimed Achmet as the tongue of light picked the eater and the eaten. “The grandfather of leopards!”

  The white glare confirmed the Afghan’s words; but for the jet-black spots that dotted the sleek, tawny hide, Steele would have thought that it was a tiger that growled and bared fangs like ivory scimitars. Its jaws dripped red, and its tail lashed in slow, menacing cadence as its muscles rippled beneath its silky hide. But more striking than its feline savagery and unusual size was the wrath and menace that it radiated. Steele felt the fury of the creature as though it emanated waves of tangible force.

  The chilly breeze was laden with the feline odor of the beast—like the odor of a lion’s den, but more intense.

  Grandfather of leopards—in a flickering instant, Steele’s impressions confirmed the Afghan’s incredulous ejaculation. The mangled woodcutter still twitched, but he no longer groaned.

  It was an easy shot, and the beast seemed dazzled by the blistering glare of the flashlight. Steele’s rifle flashed into line. The fluent, long-practiced gesture ended in a spurt of flame, a gust of nitrous fumes, and the ear-shattering blast of cordite. A streak of orange velvet—a wrathful, almost human yell—and before Steele could shift his line of fire, there was a scarcely perceptible rustling in the farther shadows.

  The leopard was gone. He had seemingly timed the contraction of Steele’s trigger finger, and flung himself aside as the front sight of the express rifle registered between his glowing eyes.

  “Damn!” growled Steele; and Achmet muttered unmentionable things in Pushtu as he saw something he had never seen before: Steele Sahib missing an easy shot.

  “But you must at least have wounded him,” the Afghan insisted.

  Steele shook his head.

  “Can’t tell. So much blood spattered about. Fact is, I’m sure I didn’t. I’d swear the —— —— evaporated just as I poured it to him.”

  “And now,” was Achmet’s optimistic prediction, “since we have interrupted his feeding, he will go out and hunt down Kirby Sahib—if he has not already done so.”

  Very likely, Steele reflected, if Kirby was not dead, or fatally wounded, he must be lost. No one in his right mind would be bushwhacking from sunset until well after midnight.

  “But if Kirby has had much of this to contend with,” Steele added, listening to the panicky chatter of the surviving woodcutters, “he can’t be in his right mind. By Heaven, if I can’t shoot any better than that I’m going to get a bayonet and charge the next time I see that spotted—!”

  And Achmet Nadir Khan of the Durani clan was somberly muttering to himself, “To the Lord of the Daybreak I betake me for refuge against Satan the Damned, and against the evils of creation, and against the envy of the envier when he envieth, and against the wiles of women who murmur and blow on knots.…”

  CHAPTER 3

  Achmet, despite his mutterings, insisted on standing the remainder of the watch; but he built a fire just in front of the veranda steps, and walked his post with curved tulwar drawn and ready to strike. And Steele, despite the tragedy that had taken place, borrowed the fatalistic attitude of the Burmese woodcutters who had composed themselves with the cheery thought that since the demon leopard had drunk blood he would not return until the following night.

  “By Heaven,” was Steele’s last waking thought, “I couldn’t miss that beast at that range and in that light. Something’s cockeyed.”

  But the fault could certainly not have been with Steele’s ammunition. The unexpended cartridge in his rifle was sound in every respect, and the vigorous recoil of the shot he had fired precluded the possibility of its having been a blank. Nevertheless, he was convinced that human skullduggery was allied with the monstrous leopard. The attack by the apprentice wizard at Hlai-bin-doung was ample proof of that; although this time there had been no disturbed sleep nor music from the halls of the King of Demon-Land to bemaze Steele’s wits. Aside from the size and unheard-of ferocity of the beast, there had been nothing out of the ordinary except his having missed an easy shot.

  And a man suddenly roused from slumber could have a lingering kink in his trigger finger.

  The stirring about of the mahouts, and the loggers preparing chota hazri, woke Steele before the dawn was even gray. Achmet shook the dew from his red beard, sheathed his curved tulwar, and muttered a devout “al hamdu lilahi.”

  And then the Afghan made uncommonly careful ablution in preparation for the sunrise prayer. But that prayer was delayed by the arrival of a white man from the fringe of the jungle. Achmet hailed Steele; and as the newcomer stalked across the grassy clearing, they knew that he must be Kirby, the manager. There would be no other white man attached to the camp.

  Achmet’s eyes flashed toward Steele’s; and then they both regarded the haggard, bedraggled man in shorts. Even in that wan, gray light he was unusual. There was no doubt that he was a white man: his skin, tanned as only that of a Nordic can be, and the high bridge of his nose, and the unprominent cheek-bones, testified to his race. Yet his hazel-flecked eyes were slanted like those of a Tartar or Mongol. His mustache, sandy-colored and bristling, jutted straight out on both sides instead of being upturned at the ends, or decently drooping, or close cropped.

  His eyes widened and assumed an odd expression that Steele found disturbing and unpleasant.

  “I’m Harrison Steele—from Rangoon office,” Steele greeted. “I fancy Powell wrote you I’d be up to give you a lift on this leopard mess?”

  “Don Kirby,” was the acknowledgment. “Managing this damned madhouse, and I’m mighty glad you arrived.”

  The perturbed, haggard look left his face as he spoke, and his voice was amiable enough; but Steele, without knowing why, was glad that Kirby did not extend his hand. And then Steele wanted to give Achmet a sound booting: the burly Afghan was eyeing Kirby from head to foot and muttering in a hoarse whisper that carried like a cavalry bugle, “Astaghfir ’ullah minash-saytan…”

  “There are times,” was Steele’s unspoken thought, “for betaking one’s self for refuge against Satan, but that red-bearded ruffian shows the damndest judgment in picking them.”

  He wondered if Kirby understood Arabic, and catching the sudden shift of the slanting, topaz eyes, Steele remarked, “Achmet’s had a tough night of it—he thinks the place is bewitched because I missed letting moonlight through our friend the leopard.”

  “So you missed him too?”

  Steele could not quite decide whether that one carried an edge or not. It might be Kirby’s natural tone.

  “Right enough,” replied Steele. “The brute turned tail and vanished like Satan in a puff of smoke—but not until another poor devil of a woodcutter was hopelessly mangled.”

  And then, for a man who for months has had no occasion to use English, Kirby was uncommonly fluent. His blasphemous wrath was impressive. Finally he concluded, “And I was bushwhacking all night long, getting torn to ribbons. I figured the brute might come down to the jeel to drink—that’s a couple of miles to the east—and I’d get a crack at him.”

  That was sound enough. The great cats do usually drink; after they have dined. Kirby apparently had assumed that the leopard would not miss his nightly fare. Steele noted the mud that had copiously bespattered Kirby, and concluded that it had been rough going along the banks of the marshy jeel.

  “Taking a long chance, aren’t you, going it single-handed?”

  Kirby shrugged, spat disgustedly, and said, “If this keeps up, I’ll n
ot have a logger left, and I won’t be able to get any from the village. The freshets are almost here, and so far we’ve not taken out enough logs to notice. There’ll be a new manager here to handle the problem if I don’t put a stop to this.” Then he hailed the kansammah, ordered breakfast, and stepped to his room in the corporation bungalow to clean up after his night’s fruitless chase.

  “Achmet,” demanded Steele as the Afghan approached, “what the hell were you driving at with your ‘astaghfir ’ullah’ and so forth a few minutes ago?”

  “There is evil in this camp, Sahib,” grumbled the Afghan. “And this Kirby Sahib is the forgotten of Allah. By Allah, in his eyes I saw the eyes of that shaitan-leopard, and for a moment I was going to cut him down with my tulwar. But instead, I spoke as you heard, and I was no longer afraid.”

  “Since when,” reproved Steele, “is one of the Durani clan afraid of anything?”

  “Since when,” came the crackling retort, “has a sahib the eyes of a leopard, and the curved nails of one? Do you now understand why he did not offer to grasp your hand as is the custom among these infidel dogs, saving your honor’s presence? It was that you would not note that his nails curve more than any man’s should.” And before Steele could think of a convincing answer, Achmet was stalking toward the huts of the woodcutters.

  Steele joined Kirby at breakfast. The kansammah, serving the meal, walked as though he were treading on eggs. Despite his efforts to disguise his furtive moves, it was obvious that he was avoiding any unnecessary approach to Kirby. The fellow’s manner had with the appearance of his chief changed from fatalistic resignation to wire-edged apprehension.

  Kirby minced with his meal, grimaced wryly, cursed each dish in succession, then said, “This thing is getting under my skin. And the devil of it is, I dare not make a truthful report.”