by Don Wilcox
“Cobert and Marco Polo had quarreled over some trifle,” Maxie explained. “Maybe it was a match or knife. Then—of all the dirty lowdown tricks—Cobert yelled over to Marco
Polo and Kid Smith early one morning in a friendly voice that he’d caught something that he wanted to show them. They thought it was a gesture toward burying the hatchet. They trotted over—and walked into a trap—a pitfall covered with brush and sand. Marco Polo went down. Kid Smith missed the pit by inches. Cobert tried to push him in, and they fought. Just then old Thunder Splitter and four huskies came over—”
“By chance?” McCorkle asked anxiously. “Or—”
“Prearrangement—no question about it. They snatched Marco Polo. The Kid fought free. Cobert shot at him and missed, and the Kid got back to us and reported the whole nasty affair.”
“And Cobert?”
“He hasn’t shown his face in these parts, and he’d better not.”
The fire died away. Slim volunteered to keep watch the first half of the night. McCorkle and I weren’t sleepy, so we stayed up and visited with him.
Slim was the homely, level headed, hard-hitting man that I had pictured from McCorkle’s description. He knew practically everything that went on began when the gang and the wingmen. He knew other things that he would seemingly have no way of finding out—until I recalled that he and the mysterious Fire Goddess had had a sympathetic understanding from the first.
We dug into the fascinating question, Where was this desert? How could it be? If it were floating near the earth, why had no astronomers ever reported it? What did the Fire Goddess mean—“of the earth but not on the earth?”
These were the sort of speculations that primitive men must have made about the sun, moon, and stars. Until some of the mighty laws of the universe were known, men could wonder and wonder endlessly, only to sink deeper in the mire of their ignorance.
And so it was with this world—a world that seemed so close to our own earth when we made passage from one to the other.
“One thing I would bet on,” said McCorkle. “The Goddess of White Flames must have received echoes of some earth thoughts. She must have felt the weight of the calculations by that crusty old German professor when he was doping out this place. So she sent Rattle Whiskers down to earth to check up.”
“If you men put so much faith in this goddess,” I suggested, “Why don’t you get her to help get Wells and Orchid Wings out of their jam?”
Slim answered slowly. “Don’t ever doubt it, I’ve kept in touch with her. She’s doing what she can. The last tip she gave was to send Kid Smith down the valley to a certain spring to see what he could see.”
“What did he see?”
“We’re waiting for him to come back,” said Slim.
This had a familiar ring. Several times during the conversation earlier in the evening Whitey Everett had broken in with a question about Kid Smith. And back of his every spoken question there seemed to be an unspoken one. “Have the wingmen got the Kid?
At midnight McCorkle told Slim to go to bed, that he and I would attend watch until dawn.
“Since Burton isn’t used to this beat he’d better take to the cool waves in the daytime.”
“I’ll turn in, then,” said Slim. “But be sure to wake me the minute the Kid comes. If he isn’t back by morning—” He’s back,” called a youngish voice from down the path. “Wake ’em up, Sliml Roll ’em out! We’re on our way to the Octagon. Grab your weapons. Let’s go!”
All this was shouted before I heard the beat of a single footstep. Then in the darkness I saw the bulky form of young Smith being dropped from the talons of a wingman swooping low over the path.
Slim yelled the alarm to Maxie and Whitey Everett. There was a confusion of talk and motion. Someone stirred the fire and lighted a torch so that everyone could check over his weapons. Three winged huskies stood by ready to convoy a part of us to the scene of action.
“More knives than I ever saw around here,” McCorkle said, as some passed him a crude iron sword. “That Greek air-slasher must have started something.”
Slim put a stone hatchet in my hands. It had a flat blade turned like an adze. “For close-in fighting,” he said.
“And don’t forget,” said Maxie, “that a chopped off wing can turn an attack quicker than a pistol bullet through a heart.”
“Are we after wings?” said McCorkle. “Or Cobert?”
“A mob of wings,” said the Kid. “But it was Franz Cobert that touched them off.”
Slim took command. He ordered Maxie, McCorkle and Whitey to ride ahead to a designated point. The huskies would come back for the rest of us on the second trip.
And so, within ten minutes after the alarm, we were mobilized for some sort of battle and on our way.
CHAPTER XXVI
Magic Knife Thrower
I tapped the stone axe lightly against the palm of my hand and reflected upon the pride my stone-age grandpappy must have felt to know that he possessed the last word in armaments. I hung it from my belt, and the darned handle smacked me on the hip with every step.
Slim and the Kid were good hikers, and the sand underfoot crowded them along as much as it bogged me down.
Once I stopped to empty my shoes, and got yards behind, and came up panting and breathless, and a bit scared, too. It would be easy to lose them on such a dark night.
As we hiked along, Slim quizzed the Kid on all that had happened at the spring, and again I gathered that the instructions of the Fire Goddess were in the back of his mind.
“You say that the wingmen had meant to hold the execution ceremony in ten days,” said Slim, “but something forced them to change their plan?”
“That’s right,” said the Kid. “And that something was Franz Cobert, as sure as my name is Smith.”
“Did you see Cobert?”
“If I had—I’d have wrung his neck. Only you told me to go to observe, not to fight. Well, it was his voice. You can’t go wrong on that accent.”
“Where was he hiding?”
“He couldn’t have been more than a stone’s throw from the mouth of the spring. His voice, you see, came right out of the spring “That’s possible,” said Slim thoughtfully.
“It sounded impossible to me,” said the Kid, “but there it was, rolling out in wavery, hollow tones along with the gurgle of the water. He talked their language, and he talked plain.”
“Do you recall his words?”
“He said, ‘Listen, wingmen. Stand up and listen.’ Then the four of them—Thunder Splitter’s four favorite huskies—jumped back from the spring, too surprised to say anything. They looked at each other and they bent down and peered into the opening in the rock. It’s about a foot in diameter and it flows just half full.”
“I know. Go on.”
“Then the voice said, ‘Listen closely. This is Cobert. I have counselled the wingmen before. Now I am passing on a message from the Flash Death. Tell Thunder Splitter that he must not delay the executions. Tomorrow at dawn your prisoners must die.’ Well, that stunned them. They began arguing among themselves. The plans couldn’t be changed, they thought. But Cobert’s voice grew sharper. They would change it. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘Cobert’s magic knife hangs over you.’ ”
“Magic knife?” said Slim. He hadn’t heard of any such thing before. “What kind of game is he working?”
“Sounds to me,” I volunteered, “as if he’s trying to get the drop on the whole tribe. He’s buying himself a slice of Thunder Splitter’s Flash Death racket.”
“Wait till I give you the payoff,” said the Kid. “These four huskies looked around just to make sure there wasn’t any knife hanging over them. Then one of them sneered and tried to pass the whole thing off as a bunch of funny noises out of the spring, with no meaning. But the voice of Cobert came again, an awful roar. ‘The magic knife hangs over you all the time. See it?’ “Then—zing! A big iron dagger came shooting out of the bushes a few yards up the slope. It struck
into the ground at the edge of the spring and splashed wet sand on their feet.”
“Ye gods!” Slim groaned. “Was he in those bushes?”
“No, they went over and looked. They found something, but it wasn’t anything they understood. The point is, the whole hoax worked. These four superstitious huskies tarried just long enough to decide that there must be executions at the next sunrise. They shouted their decision into the mouth of the spring to forestall any more knives. Then they flew off to fix the deal with Thunder Splitter.”
“And then you dashed home to give us the warning?” said Slim.
“First I investigated the how of that flying knife,” said the Kid. “It came from a homemade catapult, made out of these scrubby orange-barked trees. I saw that much, then I raced for camp. I caught a ride over the last mile when I bumped into one of Orchid Wings’ family.”
Slim had several more questions before he was satisfied he’d got the full benefit of the Kid’s scouting venture. Between them they decided that Franz Cobert must have tapped the subterranean stream a few yards back from the spring and found that he could make his voice carry through the narrow tunnel. The catapult, too, had taken careful planning. Cobert was sparing no pains to put his magic over with the major tribe of wingmen.
Our chances to throw a monkey wrench or a stone ax into the execution ceremony looked slender to me. The Kid and Slim counted forces and we were as badly outnumbered as a squad of cops against an army.
In addition to the gang—six of us, counting me, not counting Wells—there were also Rattle Whiskers and two other elderly wingmen, three young huskies, and one elderly female—all of whom had stuck by Orchid Wings from the first. They were the relatives, by blood or ties stronger than blood. They were the Green Tooth family, the same party that had conducted the wedding ceremony for Wells and Orchid Wings. If we could have found that fighting
Greek we might have converted him to our cause. But from all reports he was a lone wolf who trusted no living creature.
Against us there might be a thousand native wingmen, and yet we couldn’t be sure that all of them had fallen for the spell-binding leadership of the flesh-hungry Thunder Splitter.
A flutter of wings through the darkness announced that the three friendly huskies were returning for us—or so we thought.
“Over here!” Slim called.
You could see the dark patches of wings against the bright stars. They followed down along the slope of a hill to a point a quarter of a mile back of us. Slim called again. This time he got an answering, “Whoo-eel!”
“They’re ahead of schedule,” said the Kid. “I thought we’d make the ridge a couple miles farther on before they got back.” Then he called, “Hey-ooo! Up this way!”
“Listen!” Slim said. “Voices!”
I almost stopped breathing. The night’s sounds were the trifling little noises of sand rats playing through the bushes. The low rumble of the wingmen voices, barely carrying to us, broke off. Then the light flapping of wings came toward us again. Slim started back to meet them. He called again, uncertainty in his voice.
He was only a few yards away from us when they came to him. I saw their dark forms swooping down swiftly. There were sounds of a scuffle. Grunting, snarling, striking of blows.
“Your swords!” Slim yelled, and his outcry told us everything. These weren’t our friendly huskies. They were Cobert’s stooges. All three or four of them had pounced on Slim.
I jerked my pistol and fired some shots over the top of the fight. The Kid whipped out his blade as he bounded back through the darkness. I followed his lead. But an awful scare came over me. How could you do anything with a pistol or a knife when you couldn’t see who was who?
Before I reached Slim a winged husky came down on me. The thud of his closed claws caught me across the side of the head. I went sprawling in the sand.
I bounded up. My stone-ax was swinging as I whirled to meet my adversary. I swung, it was like whipping shadows. Flutter and squawk and the click of leaping talons were my only guide.
I smacked a wing. I felt it give against my blow like a cushion. Then an open talon cut past my head. I ducked, but one of those steel toes ripped a thin burning streak across the back of my neck.
For an instant I was scared—so darned scared I almost broke and ran. But that shaky stone-ax was still swinging, and suddenly it struck a solar plexus.
“Fwooof!” the wingman cried. Yes, I had landed one. Suddenly I was filled with the spirit of fight. That “Fwooof!” had done something for me. Now I was throwing blows like a madman fighting a mob of bats.
Then I stopped, for there was no sense pounding the darkness. The wingman was gone.
Gone—but he had got my pistol. How did he know to do that?
The fight was still on a little farther down the slope. The Kid was yelling to me to find the blade that had been knocked out of his hands.
Then, before I knew what a serious turn the fight had taken, pistol shots rang out. They came from over our heads, from these three or four huskies taking to their wings.
I flopped to the ground. Two shots hit so close I felt the earth jump.
Then I heard Slim cry out.
“Oh! The devils got me!”
CHAPTER XXVII
Executions to the East
We were whipped—whipped badly—and it wasn’t easy to take.
They had whipped us because the dark that had made us cautious had made them bold.
They had whipped us because I was green, not seasoned to the desert ways, must less to fighting. My whole being rebelled at this violence.
They had whipped us because that poison rat, Franz Cobert, had instructed them to gang up on us in the dark, mob us one at a time, and take our pistols.
Yes, they had had lessons from him, no question about that.
So now they went sailing off, slap-happy over their new prizes that belched fire and spat deadly bullets. They soared around, shooting pistols until the last bullet was spent. At no time did they seem to be aiming at anything.
But they had got Slim—got him in the side below his right lung. He lay there moaning.
It was a good thing that Maxie knew something about first aid. I was too mad to control myself. I tramped around in circles, cursing, wishing to high heaven that those diabolical huskies would come back. But I never supposed they would—at least not so soon.
I stumbled over the Kid’s lost knife quite by chance. I picked it up, weighed it in my hand, slashed at the air.
Oh, for a chance at one of those wings with this! Five minutes later that chance came. Rattle Whiskers swooped over from the south calling to us. Then his call took on a different tone. He wasn’t alone up there. One of the huskies was winging back to head him off.
They fought and rolled and came my way—and I ran to them—slipped in close—caught the sure sounds of the faithful old wingman’s painful grunts and gasps—knew that the husky was on top.
I saw Rattle Whiskers roll free for a moment—heard his low muttering voice. The young husky jumped to attack again, and the sounds told me that he seized a stone in one of his talons. He took three jumps toward the rolling form, and the stone clacked heavily against the ground, Thump, thump, thump!
I rushed in as the form of the husky took the final leap toward Rattle Whiskers. I swung the iron blade, backed it with every ounce of my strength.
Clush!
Feathers, blood, and flesh—and a low groan of a dying wingman. I drew my knife out of the middle of the husky’s back, wiped it on the severed wings.
Rattle Whiskers rolled out from under the dead, bleeding heap.
“Did the stone get you?” I said, much too excited to know what I was saying.
“It missed me farther than your knife,” Rattle Whiskers muttered. “It’s a good thing you’re no stouter. You’d have cut us both in two.”
Slim and the Kid made me go on with Rattle Whiskers. The job before us was to get ourselves moved to the east range w
here the executions would take place. And every man or wingman of us must know what had taken place here tonight. They must know that Cobert would be lurking somewhere near the execution ground with his voice tricks ready—also his knife throwing machine. For Slim was sure that two of the huskies had stopped to pick up some object after they had finished their pistol-firing spree.
“Tell Maxie and the Others,” said Slim, “that Cobert’s game is to clean us humans off the desert. He’s pushing this execution of Wells because he thinks the rest of us will be easy.”
“But what is his game?” I asked dubiously. “He’s a human too. Won’t the wingmen deal with him sooner or later?”
“He’s intending to make himself their master.”
“How do you know?” said Rattle Whiskers.
“Through her—the Goddess.”
Slim’s voice was low, almost reverent. His arm extended toward something we couldn’t see. The Kid tried to make him lie down, but he was mumbling half-audible words. The Goddess of White Flame must have been thereto him—a phantom of darkness.
“I think I saw her,” Rattle Whiskers said to me as we flew away.
Now we assembled at the east mountains. It was not quite dawn as we found our way down into the mountain tunnel whose rock openings would serve as windows toward the probable scenes of execution.
Maxie and McCorkle and Whitey were quietly excited over the message I brought from Slim.
“So Cobert means to kill us off, one by one. He thinks he can capitalize on the wingmen’s superstitions.”
“And even work Thunder Splitter’s Flash Death gag on Thunder Splitter himself,” I said.
“He’ll have to play a clever hand to take in a hoaxer like Thunder Splitter,” said Maxie skeptically. “Old Thunder Puss is a clever strategist. Look how quick he shifted the place of execution
from the Octagon to this east range.”
“Yes—why?” I asked.
“Because Cobert had tried to call both the time and the place. To play safe Thunder Splitter changed the place.”