Then, taking the tin from his pocket, he pushed the drawing, which he had taken from the drawing-office, into it, and secured the lid tightly. With this he was a little more particular, taking care to find a spot that suited him. Satisfied, he scraped a small cavity, put the tin into it, and covered it neatly with slabs of dry cactus, handling these cautiously on account of their thorns.
He had just completed this minor operation, and was
about to step back from the hedge, when he became aware of something large, black, soft and heavy, on the back of his left hand—stuck there, it seemed. He could just see it in the dappled moonlight. Without giving the matter a thought, not having the least idea what it was, and in fact not paying much attention as he was occupied with other things, he shook his hand impatiently to get rid of the object. In this he succeeded, but at the cost of such an excruciating pain that he instinctively clutched at his hand with a cry of agony. It was as if he had been stabbed with a red hot needle, only the pain, instead of being local, shot right up his arm. For a second or two he stood there, scarcely able to think, conscious only of the pain. Then, the initial shock passing, he knew what had happened, and the reaction produced such a wave of nausea that he nearly fainted. He had been bitten, bitten by what is probably the most loathsome, and certainly one of the most venomous, insects of tropical America—a tarantula.
Mustering his spinning faculties he recovered himself with an effort and ran back along the edge of the river, splashing and stumbling in his haste to get to the gap in the hedge.
With human enemies he was no longer concerned, knowing that he was the victim of an attack even more deadly.
As soon as he was in clear moonlight he snatched off his wristwatch, for the strap was already cutting into the swelling flesh ; then he took out his penknife, opened it with one hand and his teeth—for his left arm was already numb —and with the blade deliberately cut three incisions across the crimson spot that marked the place where the poison-laden fangs had entered. Blood flowed from the self-inflicted wound, running hot over his hand. Slipping the knife into his pocket he sucked the wound, spitting the blood—and some of the venom with it, he hoped—on the ground, upbraiding himself bitterly for the folly of travelling in such country without a snake-bite outfit. Permanganate of potash was what he needed, to rub into the wound.
At this moment he remembered that there was a labora-
tory, or surgery, within forty yards of where he was standing. Whether von Stalhein and Stitzen were still locked up, or had effected their escape, he neither knew nor cared. If permanganate was there, and he felt certain that it would be, he would have it, cost what it may. Pistol in his right hand, the other hanging low, dripping blood, he ran unsteadily towards the bungalow. A deathly sickness was already coming over him as the poison spread through his system.
Neither von Stalhein nor Stitzen was in the hall. He could hear them kicking at the door of the store-room, but this meant little to him in his extremity and he did not even glance along the corridor. He made straight for the laboratory, and having flung open the door, started searching along the rows of jars and bottles for the one he needed. It was there, but it took three precious minutes to find it ; and then, in his haste to get the cap off the jar, for he had only one hand and his knees to work with, he overturned the whole thing so that the purple crystals scattered themselves about the floor. Dropping to his knees he gathered some up and with his right hand forced them into the wound. There was nothing more he could do.
Fighting against sickness and faintness he told himself that he would have to hide—
hide—hide ; the words throbbed in his aching brain like a broken piston in a cylinder.
Leaving the room, and the building, he staggered towards the garden gate. Back to the gap in the hedge he dare not go for fear he collapsed in the water and drowned. He still clutched his pistol in his sound hand, and had occasion arisen he would have used it without hesitation. He stumbled over what he had taken to be a shadow. Without particular interest he saw that it was the dead body of Elizabeth.
Strangely enough, the gate stood wide open without a soul to be seen. He was feeling too ill to be grateful for this facility, and could only stagger on through trees that were beginning to waltz around him. Where should he go ? For what refuge should he make, to lie up like a wounded animal ? He didn't know ; he could no longer think clearly. All he knew was that he must keep on walking, for to rest now was to risk falling into a coma from which, at this stage of the venom, he might never awaken.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, and certainly without knowing where he was going, he blundered on, merely taking the easiest way across the mesa. As in a sort of horrid nightmare he saw that the dawn was breaking. Still he stumbled on, sometimes swaying, sometimes resting, conscious of only one thing, and that was the dreadful throbbing in his arm, now swollen beyond recognition. His hand was a round ball from which the fingers projected like rigid stumps.
How far he had walked he did not know. Time and distance no longer had meaning. His side felt paralysed. His heart pounded as it fought the toxin. He was no longer conscious of his limbs. Only the pain in his arm and the cold sweat on his face were real. Yet, curiously, in a detached sort of way, he seemed suddenly to know where he was. At least, he had been over the ground before. There was a hut. He had seen it recently. A man lived there. He had spoken to him. His name was . . . he couldn't remember the name.
Perhaps he was in the hut now. He must get to it. He must get to it before his strength gave out. Swaying and swerving he went on. Then, in some mysterious way, the man was there in front of him, sometimes near, sometimes fax, swaying about against a sky that in some strange way was turning black.
A voice spoke, as if from the far distance. "What's wrong, chum ? "it said. "You remember me don't you—Joe Clarke, the bloke you spoke to yesterday ? "
Biggles pointed to his hand. "Tarantula," he panted.
" Blimy I You poor blighter." Joe took the pistol from Biggles' unresisting fingers, put it in his pocket, got Biggles' arm across his shoulders and half-carried half-dragged him towards the hut. "Hold up, mate," he said tersely. His voice rose in a shout. " Hi I Lilt Gimme a hand."
Biggles became aware that a woman was supporting him on the other side. It was all getting indistinct. They got him through a door and lowered him on a truckle bed fitted flush against the wall.
Joe went to a box near the fireplace and came back with a bottle and a cup. Into the cup he poured some brown liquid and held it to Biggles' lips. "Drink up," he ordered. "It'll help you a lot. Keeps the blood going and deadens the pain."
Biggles did not argue. He drank. At that moment he would have drunk poison. In fact, he thought for a moment he had done so, for the liquid was like fire in his throat. He choked, spluttering, while his eyes filled with water. " What's—that ? "he managed to get out.
" Tequita—sort o' native booze," answered Joe. "Pretty raw stuff, but it might do the trick. •They say its better than brandy. We keep a drop handy in case o' snake bite."
Biggles lay back, breathing heavily, his left arm out stiff. Mrs. Clarke had pulled off his jacket, cut away the sleeve of his shirt and was putting something hot on the bite.
"It's a bad 'un," she said, looking up from the wound to her husband. "The dirty little beast fairly got his teeth in," she told Biggles. "I often hear them ticking in the night," she added casually. "They tick like a clock, you know. They used to frighten me to death, but they don't any longer. You get used to anything in this place."
"Don't talk so much, Lil," chided Joe. To Biggles he went on : "Where's your pal—the one who was with you yesterday ? "
"I don't know," answered Biggles.
"I thought if you knew where he was I'd fetch him," explained Joe.
"He'll be—somewhere—on the river," returned Biggles. "Which way—upstream or down ? "
"Could be either—but most likely—down. Look for a plane." Biggles tried to get up, but Joe pu
shed him back gently.
Joe turned to his wife. "You stay here and do what you can for him. I'll see if I can find his pal. Maybe I'll get some of the others to help."
Biggles did not hear this last remark. He had sunk into a nightmare in which Liebgarten and von Stalhein were searing the flesh from the bone of his arm with red-hot irons.
XV
THE MAILED FIST
WHEN Biggles again opened his eyes he was alone, and it took him some time to remember where he was and what had happened. Gradually consciousness returned, and with it the throbbing ache in his arm, which he now saw was bandaged. But his head was clearer. The nausea had passed, but he still felt weak and ill.
Mrs. Clarke came into the room from the adjacent one, and seeing that his eyes were open, inquired cheerfully : "Feeling better ? "
"Much better, thanks," replied Biggles. "My arm is still pretty sore and my head aches, but not so badly as it did."
"That's a good sign," Mrs. Clarke informed him. "You should be all right now. It's the state of your blood that counts. It gets pretty thin when you've been here as long as we have."
"Where's your husband ? "
"He went off to try to find your pal. He's been gone a long time ; I can't think what he's doing."
"What's the time now ? My watch is in my jacket pocket."
"I reckon it must be close on four," said Mrs. Clarke. "You passed out on us, you know.
For a little while I thought you'd gone for good. Then you came round for a bit, but you were delirious. After that you fell off to sleep.
I reckon it was the tequita that did that. It's potent stuff."
Biggles could hardly believe that it was four in the afternoon, that a whole day had gone.
What, he wondered, were the others doing in his absence. No doubt they were looking for him. He also speculated on the search that he knew was being made for him.
Knowing what he now knew, he was quite sure that Stitzen would not let him leave the valley if he could prevent it. He wished he knew what was going on outside, but he did not feel equal to moving to find out.
The information was soon brought to him, and in no pleasant manner. There was a rattle outside of unshod hooves on baked earth. Mrs. Clarke started up in alarm, turning startled eyes to the door. A few moments later, without further warning, two big negroes, dressed in white drill suits, strode into the room. Both carried whips.
The first let out a shout when his eyes fell on Biggles. "Here he is ! " he cried exultantly.
"You leave him alone, he's sick," said Mrs. Clarke in a shrill voice.
The men ignored her. One walked over, caught Biggles by the collar of his shirt and jerked him to a sitting position, an action which wrung from Biggles a sharp cry of pain as his injured arm fell from the position in which it had been resting.
"Leave him alone, you bully," flared Mrs. Clarke, making a run at the black.
The negro, with an impressive display of muscular strength, brushed her aside with a casual sweep of his arm, one which, nevertheless, had sufficient force behind it to send her reeling against the wall. He grinned unpleasantly and returned to Biggles. "Come on,
" he sneered. "On your feet."
Biggles was powerless to resist. His legs seemed to be made of india-rubber, and every movement of his useless arm was torture.
By this time Mrs. Clarke, undaunted, was returning to the attack, panting with fury. Her eyes blazed. She dashed at the black who was now hauling Biggles roughly from his couch, while Biggles ,groped at his hip pocket for a pistol that was no longer there. He couldn't remember what had happened to it, what he had done with it. Realising the futility of resistance he called to Mrs. Clarke to take care of herself. She took no notice, but catching the negro by the arm made a useless attempt to drag him away. Upon this the second black stepped forward, eyes narrowing. He swung his whip and struck. The thong whistled. It fell with a vicious slash across an arm which Mrs. Clarke flung up instinctively to protect her face. She screamed as it bit into her bare flesh.
"You swine," said a voice, thin, but clear, as taut as a bow-string with passion.
Both negroes spun round to face the door whence had come the words. Biggles looked, too, and there in the doorway stood Joe Clarke, face as white as chalk, lips parted, his breath coming fast from running or from the fury which was shaking him. In his eyes, turned on the negro who had struck his wife, was such a glare of blind rage that neither of the blacks moved or spoke. Or maybe it was the pistol that he held in his hand, Biggles' automatic, that made them pause.
"You cowardly swine," said Joe again, in the same strung-up voice. Not for a moment did his eyes leave the man who had struck his wife. He did not move. He did not raise the pistol. Ile appeared to be unaware that he held it. He just stood there.
The guilty negro must have read something in his eyes, for he made a dash for the back door. The movement seemed to break a spell. Life returned to Joe's paralysed limbs. His hand jerked up. The pistol spat flame and lead. The negro stopped. Quite slowly, he turned. He looked at Joe through a faint blue haze of cordite smoke with a strange expression of horror and surprise. And there for a moment he stood, his mouth opening and shutting. Then every limb seemed to collapse at once, and he crashed to the ground with a thud that shook the whole building.
The second negro made a leap for the open door, but as Joe barred his way he turned on him like a panic-stricken tiger. With a terrific swipe of his arm he flung Joe with a crash and a clatter into the fireplace. The pistol flew from Joe's hand. With a yell of triumph the black whipped a knife from his belt. His arm swung up as he sprang at Joe, who, looking half-dazed, was trying to rise. The black had no eyes for anybody but him. If he supposed, as he may have done, that he had nothing to fear from a sick man and a woman, it was a misjudgment that cost him his life. With a single feline spring, her hair flying loose, Mrs. Clarke reached the pistol which lay where it had fallen. She did not appear to take aim. In any case she was too close to the black for that. When the pistol went off it was within a foot of his body, so close that the knife in its downward swing passed within an inch of her arm. The negro's momentum carried him on and he dived into the floor like a swimmer plunging into shallow water. Snarling like a wounded animal he tried to get to his feet. Mrs. Clarke fired again, and again, and again, and the body into which she was sending the bullets sank slowly to the floor. It did not move again.
Looking thoroughly shaken Joe got up. "Thanks, old gal," he said in a sort of choking voice.
Lil, her passion passing like a gust of wind, dropped the pistol, and sinking into a chair buried her face in her hands.
Joe looked at Biggles. "There's a woman for yer," he said proudly.
"You're a lucky fellow, Joe," answered Biggles, who for once had been a helpless spectator in a scene of violence. In his weak condition he was not feeling too good himself.
Came running footsteps, approaching the door. "Give me that pistol, quick," ordered Biggles, and then sank back, shaking his head as if the whole thing was getting beyond him.
In the doorway stood Bertie, gun in one hand, while with the other he leaned against the doorpost, surveying the scene of carnage with an expression of utter bewilder ment. "
Here, I say, you know—" he began. Then he was pushed aside and Ginger, followed by a man unknown to Biggles, came into the room.
Ginger pulled up short, too, when he saw the picture the room presented. He looked at Biggles, at the dead men on the floor, then back at Biggles.
"Something seems to have been going on here," he muttered.
"That swine hit my missus," explained Joe, before Biggles could answer.
"Looks as if he's finished knocking women about, yes, by Jove 1" murmured Bertie approvingly.
Ginger went over to Biggles. "What's happened ? How are you ? Who—?"
"Just a minute—take it easy," protested Biggles. "I'm not too bad. I was daft enough to get myself bitten by a tarantula, and, by thunder! I've paid
for it. My arm is giving me a taste of unadulterated hades, but I think it's getting better. At first I thought I'd had it—in fact, I was a gonner if it hadn't been for Joe, who found me."
"Brigham told us you'd had it, but he didn't know how." "Who's Brigham ? "
Ginger pointed at the man. "He found us and brought us here."
Joe, who had been examining his wife's arm, joined in. "I thought I'd better try to find you," he told Ginger. "I couldn't go up the river and down it at the same time, so I went downstream and got Tom Brigham to go the other way. Tom's all right. I told you I was going."
"I don't remember," said Biggles. "I don't remember anything after I got here."
"You'll be all right now," promised Joe. "You've passed the danger mark and in a day or two you should be okay. What are we going to do about this, that's what I want ter know
? " He jerked a thumb at the two negroes, still lying where they had fallen.
"Are they dead ? "
"As dead as they'll ever be. One got it in the heart and the other in the head. Serves 'em right. When I saw that swine hit my missus I went tearing mad. They've had it coming to
'em for a long time. One day I'll tell you some of the things they've done—"
"Yes, but not now," interposed Biggles. "What do you suggest we do with them ? "
"We've got ter get rid of 'em, and quick," put in Brigham, who seemed a bit scared now that cold reason was asserting itself. " If it's found out that we laid a finger on one of Durango's men, we shall have had it all right, too."
" Durango ? Who's Durango ? "asked Biggles curiously.
"Colonel Jose Durango. Ain't you never heard of him—no, maybe you wouldn't. He's a Mexican. I heard all about him when I was up in Mexico City one time. I had a job there before I came here. He tried to start a revolution, but it came unstuck—not for the first time, either. He had ter bolt to save his neck. That feller who calls himself Liebgarten was mixed up in it, too. I reckon that's 'ow they got together. Liebgarten was in the German Legation in Mexico City. I saw him there, but I don't know what his proper name is. The papers said 'e was one of those who backed Durango, who was an admirer of Hitler's and wanted ter make the country Nazi. Wouldn't surprise me if they were plannin' another revolution right now."
35 Biggles Takes A Holiday Page 16