The Spicy-Adventure

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  He wound Don Diego’s cloak about the unconscious girl’s body, still traced and speckled with blood from the torture-spikes that had needled her tender flesh. He lifted her to his arms.

  They won free of the fortress without trouble.

  “Strange,” Richard commented.

  “Not so strange. The Spaniards are all down at those shore batteries Don Diego bragged of.”

  “’Tis a piece of luck for us, no matter where they be.”

  * * * *

  They came to the wharf, still unmolested. But the skiff was gone. Search as they might, they could find no other boat. Rosa, revived by the dawn-cold air, said softly, “Roger, since we must hasten—I can swim, if it’s not too far.”

  “It’s something less than half a league, lass,” Roger told her doubtfully. “But, it looks as if we’ll have to try.”

  Close against him, she hesitated, looking at Black Richard. Blake said, “She has no garment but the cloak, Dick. And she can’t swim in that. Do you start out ahead of us.”

  “Hah!” the giant grumbled. “I don’t know what secrets she thinks she has from me, after this night. But—so be it.” He stripped shirt and trousers from his hairy body and slipped silently into the water. Blake, doing likewise, followed him. As his head came above water, he saw her poised on the wharf above him. His eyes filled with the lilting curves of that slim body, silhouetted sharply against the faint-dawning sky, and he thought he had never seen beauty before. Then a white streak came down beside him and the water closed behind her without a ripple. They struck out for the ships.

  “Roger?” she whispered, a long time later, “are we almost to the ships?”

  “Almost,” he told her. “Tired?”

  “Not very. What will Morgan say when you bring me aboard?”

  “He’ll think of nothing else but the news we bring. And never fear, we’ll keep you safe. The English King has promised Morgan a pardon, if we sack Panama. Then you and I can go ashore in Barbados and become respectable.”

  “Oh, Roger!” He could barely hear her. Then, “Roger, I think I can see the ships.”

  The black bulk of hulls and masts loomed up ahead. “’Tis but a few strokes more,” he encouraged.

  “I know. Roger…will you kiss me before we reach the ship?”

  He rolled on his side and slipped an arm beneath wet shoulders. As his mouth glued itself to hers, he felt soft, cool arms entwine themselves about him. The cold water became suddenly warm as they sank down into shadowy depths.

  He tore his mouth away and broke for the surface. Laughing as she came up beside him, he said, “The Atlantic’s too deep for that. And we’ve time enough aboard.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. “My beloved! Then…let’s hasten, Roger!”

  RIVER OF FIRE, by Ken Cooper

  Originally published in Spicy Adventure Stories, March 1937.

  “You know what this assignment means, Dr. Carson?”

  The gray-haired Divisional Director of the United States Public Health Service looked up.

  Bob Carson nodded. “Yes, I understand perfectly.”

  “You will be as much a missionary as a physician,” the director continued. “These bayou people are almost fanatic in their distrust of medical science. Despite every effort to wipe it out, barbaric voodooism is still rampant. Our latest report shows a ghastly increase in mortality. The Okochee Bayou is a fester of filth and disease. Are you still willing to accept the post?”

  A faint smile curled Bob’s lips. He was thinking of Pasteur, of Lister, of Walter Reed. They had all flirted with death to bring enlightenment. He squared his broad shoulders.

  “Yes, I’m willing. Mrs. Carson will accompany me as my nurse.”

  The director frowned. “If I may so suggest, Dr. Carson,” he said, “I don’t think it’s wise to take a woman into the bayou country. You will find conditions precarious enough without the added burden of protecting your wife. The practically uncivilized men who inhabit the region regard women as chattels. I feel it imperative to warn you about this.”

  “Mrs. Carson is eager to go along. I’ve told her of the dangers. She comes from pioneer stock, sir. I’m certain she can be of great assistance.”

  The director shrugged. “It’s up to you, doctor.” He fumbled through some papers. “This is your assignment. Arrangements have already been made to ship instruments, medicinals, and food supplies. A bungalow has been built. Naturally, utmost secrecy as to its purpose was necessary. Nobody knows, as yet, who will occupy the bungalow. Now, as to getting there. The Spring floods have made the wagon roads impassable. You will have to go by steam launch up the Okochee River to the delta. There, according to our investigator, you will find a native eel fisher who can row you across the bayou to the bungalow. If possible, send out monthly reports.”

  He rose, extended his hand. “You have my best wishes, doctor. The knowledge that you are aiding humanity should compensate for any discomfiture you may experience. Good-bye and good luck!”

  * * * *

  An hour later, in a Savannah hotel room, Bob interrupted his packing to sweep the slim, lovely figure of Enid, his bride of a month, into his arms. He kissed the soft hollow of her throat, her cheeks, her warm, poppy-red lips. His arms tightened lovingly about her mature curves, moulding her high firm breasts against him.

  “This can easily make a name for me, darling,” he enthused. “If we go in there and clean those people up we’ll both be famous.” His face darkened. “There’s just one thing, Enid. It’s about you. Blake, at the Health Service, warned me against letting you go along. He said it might be dangerous.”

  Enid pressed her young, vitally alive body close. “Do you think I’d let you go without me?”

  “No, but—but I thought I might refuse the post.”

  “Goose! It’s a wonderful opportunity, isn’t it? Haven’t you been talking about it all the way from New York? How many young men just out of medical school get appointments to the Public Health Service?” She twined her arms about Bob’s neck, mashed her parted lips down on his mouth. The swelling of her splendid breasts was Bob’s answer. She amplified it only when she drew her moist lips away. “We’re going together, darling. If it’s dangerous you need me and I need you. Right?”

  Bob thrilled to her courage. “Right,” he whispered, again seeking the ecstatic well-spring of her mouth, feeling the globular fullness of her breasts as his arms enfolded her.

  * * * *

  Night on the bayou. Only the deep croaking of giant bull frogs and the faint, muffled splash of an oar in the dark water.

  Huddled in the back seat of a flat-bottomed eel boat, Enid shivered as the chorus of throaty sound echoed from the ebony pine grove on the far side of the bayou.

  Bob tightened his arm about her waist. “Cold?” he whispered.

  “N-No.” Her teeth chattered. “It—it’s just a little spooky.”

  The wrinkled, stoop-shouldered native in the prow of the boat spat into the water. “Nigguh night,” he mumbled.

  The very timbre of his voice seemed to match the croaking of the frogs. Bob’s hand slid up to where he could feel the pounding of her heart.

  “You’re not frightened, are you, darling?”

  She laughed softly. “Of course not.” Her head came back and her mouth sought Bob’s lips. They were warm when they touched, but they turned to ice as a weird shriek knifed out of the black pine grove, rippled over the water like a snake and scuttled into the valley beyond the bayou.

  “What’s that?” Bob gasped.

  The fisherman answered without turning. “Screech owl. Swamp’s full uh dem. Ain’ no hurt but dey sho’ frightens duh wits out uh yuh.” He cackled hideously. “Some folks say dey’s duh spirits ub duh dead. Ah dunno.”

  The boat swung around as it neared the steep-banked shore. Bob made out the outlines of a small
building set in a cluster of towering pines. There was a flickering light in one window.

  “Is—is that the bungalow?” he questioned.

  Their ferryman leaned over, grabbed the stump of a sapling tree and pulled the boat in close. “Yassuh, dat’s it. Don’ look so good in duh night but it’s a right smaht shack. Heah, step easy.” He held a bony hand out to Enid. She drew back.

  Bob lifted her from the boat to the bank, handed up his personal instrument bag, their two suitcases. He dug into his pocket and brought out a dollar bill. The ancient took it, examined it in the orange-yellow glow of an oil lamp.

  “Fixin’ to stay on a spell?” he questioned.

  Bob caught a whiff of his breath. It was heavy with raw alcohol. “I—I suppose we’ll be here some time,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Wal, ah thought mebbe you’d be a-needin’ some fresh eels. I’ll be over mebbe in a week. If yuh’r heah, I’ll see yuh.”

  Bob stepped up on the bank. The boat slid out on the black water. The eel fisher’s fiendish cackle came back to them faintly.

  Enid hugged Bob close. “What did he mean?” she panted. “Why did he say if we’re here?”

  Bob tried desperately to make his voice sound cheery. It was a pitiful effort. “He—he doesn’t know we’re staying, that’s all. You take the small bag and I’ll take the rest. I’m anxious to see our new home. Come on.”

  As they neared the bungalow the door opened and a man in boots and breeches stepped out on the porch. The high crown of his tan sombrero almost touched the porch roof. He was big and rangy. The light from the room beyond silhouetted his broad-shouldered figure.

  “You the Doc?” he questioned.

  Bob stepped in front of Enid. “Yes, I am.”

  “Here, let me take those bags.” Ham-like hands reached out and snatched the baggage from Bob’s grip. “Been waitin’ for you. Got a fire all set. There’s a chill.”

  Holding Enid’s arm, Bob followed the giant stranger inside. He turned to face them, pushing his hat back on his head, towering like a Goliath above them. The skin of his cheeks was like oil-rubbed leather. Bright gray eyes flashed from beneath shaggy brows.

  “My name’s Eddinger,” he said bluffly. “Boll Eddinger. Heard you were comin’ down so thought I’d drop in an’ get things set to rights.”

  His hand grip had the strength of a vise. Bob winced. “That—that’s aw-fully nice of you,” he stammered.

  Eddinger shrugged. “Nothin’ at all.” He eyed Enid curiously, but there was warmth in the movement of his eyes over her youthfully curved figure. “Didn’t expect a woman, though.”

  “My wife,” Bob explained. “Mrs. Carson, Mr. Eddinger.”

  Enid forced a wan smile. “How—how do you do, Mr. Eddinger.”

  He nodded, shuffled his feet self-consciously. “It’s high time we had a doc down here,” he said. “Yes, sir, it sure is. Why, them white trash are dyin’ off like rats in a flood, they are. Burned six yesterday.”

  “Burned?” Bob echoed.

  “Sure thing. They don’t believe in decent burial, no, sir. Burn up the corpses an’ eat the ashes, that’s what they do.”

  Enid turned white. Her hand covered her mouth. Even Bob blanched. Eddinger seemed not to notice their disgust.

  “They kinda figure a man’s soul stays with his ashes,” he continued. “So they eat ’em to keep him alive. When a woman dies they scatter the ashes on the bayou for the eels. Women don’t mean nothin’ down in this here neck of the woods.”

  “But—but how do you happen to be here, Mr. Eddinger?” Bob questioned.

  “Me? Oh, I come in before the Spring floods an’ stay on until late summer. I buy up all the turps they tap, haul it out around August.”

  “Turps?”

  “Turpentine.” He pulled a turnip of a silver watch out of his pocket. “Guess I’ll be goin’ along. You folks’ll be wantin’ some sleep. There’s just one thing, Doc. You won’t be gettin’ much thanks for anythin’ you do. These folks kinda got their own way of handlin’ sickness. Last week a girl run a sliver through her hand. They didn’t wait to see what come of it. They just chopped the hand off. She bled to death durin’ the night.” He paused at the door. “Jus’ go easy for a spell. If you need me ask anyone where Boll is. G’night”

  When the door had closed behind him Bob turned to Enid. Her cheeks were tallow white and her eyes burned like live coals.

  “Bob!” she whispered. “Did—did you ever hear anything so horrible?”

  He slipped his arms about her waist. “Buck up, kid. We knew what we were coming to. That’s why we came, because it was this way. In a month we’ll have them eating out of our hands.” He kissed the delicately soft hollow of her throat, ran his lips up over her chin to her mouth.

  Neither of them saw the face at the window. It was thin, sallow and heavily bearded. Dark, malevolent eyes peered out from under scraggly, unkempt brows. The yellow-green tusks of root-rotted teeth hung viscously over a twisted lower lip. It was the face of a maniac; the face of a warped, undeveloped mentality; the face of a human creature whose habitat was the sluggish, oily bayou.

  A white-coated tongue slithered out and licked the shapeless lips as Bob and Enid’s mouths joined. Saliva drooled from the tartar-stained teeth and dropped to the filthy rag that was the creature’s only covering. Its pupils dilated sensuously, riveted on Enid’s breasts. Then, breathing heavily, it melted into the darkness.

  * * * *

  That first night was mental and physical torture. The macabre croaking of the frogs, the ghastly outcries of the screech owls, all conspired to keep them both awake until sheer exhaustion conquered stark, unmentionable terror. As best they could, they tried to hide from each other the fear that gripped them.

  Daylight brought surcease from the pitch horror of night. A bright sun shone down on the bayou. Gay plumaged birds dipped low over the surface of the water. It was a different world with the shades of darkness gone.

  Bob unpacked his instruments and medicinals. Enid busied herself with the foodstuffs. Not a human soul other than themselves disturbed the sylvan tranquility of their pine-shaded retreat.

  “I don’t suppose there’s much transient trade here,” Bob said jokingly. “No use hanging up a shingle.”

  Enid laughed. “This drum of kerosene, Bob. What’s it for?”

  “Lamps and lice. That’s where you’ll come in, darling.” He scratched his head significantly. “I’ll wager every kid on the bayou is inhabited. You won’t mind working on them, will you?”

  “Mind?” She slid into Bob’s arms, pressed his cheeks between the palms of her hands. “You know I won’t mind doing anything—for you.”

  As though they were powerful magnets, the upthrust hills of her breasts drew his caressing eyes. It seemed as though he could never get enough of Enid’s loveliness. Her body was a holy shrine on which he laid the votive offering of his adoration.

  “I love you,” he whispered, his lips close to the sweet warmth of her mouth. “I love, love, love, love you!”

  Enid’s eyes smiled. Her lips parted in expectancy. “I guess you love me,” she murmured.

  * * * *

  Darkness fell all too soon. Gray fingers of dusk reached down over the bayou, clutched at the daylight, moved it beyond the horizon. The frogs began their incessant croaking. Crickets chirped in the swamp grass outside the cabin.

  Enid prepared dinner. It was while she was washing up the few dishes and Bob was labeling his bottles, that a knock sounded at the door. Bob answered.

  It was a barefoot girl clothed in a filthy rag of a cotton dress. At first glance Bob thought she was a child. Her ethereally beautiful face was hunger-pinched and dirt-smeared. Her black eyes burned in deep-sunk sockets.

  “Cud yuh come, mistuh?” she queried. “Paw’s sick tuh dyin’.”

&n
bsp; Her voice was thin and quavering. Her lips, ripe and full, quivered. Bob ran his eyes up and down her figure. He was amazed to see the plump, globular outlines of mature breasts, the lyred sweep of curved hips. She was a woman rather than a child. A full-grown woman, voluptuously soft and rounded. The bodice of her faded dress had been torn. The grimy color of her face almost belied the whiteness of the breast Bob could see through the rent.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The girl hung back. “’Druther not,” she blurted. “Cud yuh come quick, mistuh?” Her fingers fidgeted with the front of her dress, tightening the thin material over her high, swelling breasts. It was evident that the dress was her sole covering.

  Enid came out of the kitchen. Her eyes dampened sympathetically as she saw the woebegone figure at the door. “What is it, Bob?” she questioned.

  “She says her father is sick. I’d better go along with her. Do you mind staying alone or do you want to come along?”

  “Don’t be silly! I’ll stay.” She addressed the girl. “Won’t you come in for a moment?”

  The girl’s eyes dropped to the floor. She hid one dirty foot behind the other. The rapid rhythm of her breathing raised and lowered her resilient breasts. Bob was back with his bag.

  “What’s the matter with your father?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Dunno.”

  “What’s your name?” Enid questioned. Again the girl hung her head. She seemed dazzled in the presence of a woman who wore clean things, stockings, shoes.

  “Peg Cowber,” she mumbled. Bob kissed Enid hurriedly on the lips. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Don’t worry.”

  “Bring her with you,” Enid whispered. “I have an old dress she can wear. She looks hungry, too.”

  “Sweet!”

  He was gone, following the bare-foot girl through the pine grove. Enid stood in the doorway until the crunch of his footsteps in the dry brown needles was lost in the black beyond. The slim crescent of a cold, silvery moon was coming up over the bayou. A bat crossed it, wings widespread. Enid shuddered, closed the door, returned to her dishes.