The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “No! Will you stop twisting my words, now? I’d sooner be walkin’ along the sand here with you than educating all the beautiful women on earth!”

  “You don’t count me among the beautiful ones?” questioned Rosemonde demurely. “Well, I admire your frankness, at least! Souviens-toi de ceci; on n’a que l’age que l’on parait—”

  “Taisez-vous,” said Desmond suddenly, halting her with a touch on her arm. “There is something moving ahead—”

  He was cut short by a low cry, a cry barely heard, yet appalling in its agony. It seemed to come from directly ahead of them, and an instant later a dark shape came staggering out upon the sand, to fall prostrate.

  “Wait here,” commanded Desmond and ran forward.

  He found himself stooping above a man—one of the Manchus—who had been stabbed terribly in the side. The man must have died as he uttered that low, wordless cry.

  Desmond peered into the night. A dark mass offshore indicated the wreck of the San Gregorio; it was without a light, seemingly abandoned. But the second boat, which should have been drawn up on the sand, was gone. Desmond rejoined Rosemonde at the edge of the trees.

  “I don’t understand this,” he said, perplexed. “That boat’s gone, yet the Manchus seem to be still ashore—that is one of them, stabbed to death.”

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Then the big bearded man, this Balderson, has attacked the prince.”

  “Will you return to the camp?” demanded Desmond, suddenly grave.

  “Merci, non!”

  “Then come.”

  He set off across the sand, Rosemonde at his elbow, skirting the trees and seeking some sign of the encampment which he knew must lie in among the trees. Insensibly, Desmond quickened his stride until he was a few feet ahead of Rosemonde.

  A shadow moved among the trees, a mere blot upon the blackness close at hand. A long finger of the shadow seemed to lick out at Desmond’s feet; tripped by the stick, he fell headlong. The first touch had warned him, although too late to save himself. As he plunged to the sand he flung out his arm; his automatic exploded. A dark figure that had sprung out upon Rosemonde, behind him, whirled and screamed once as it plowed into the sand.

  That shot saved Rosemonde, but a heavy body hurtled out and fell full upon Desmond as he lay. Rosemonde, taken off guard by the sudden outleap into action, not yet comprehending the amazing swiftness of Desmond’s shot, stood above the dead man, staring at the twisting figures before her. She could not tell which was friend, which enemy.

  The sense of smell, the faint raw scent of opium, told Desmond that the man above him was a Manchu. His pistol was useless, his arm gripped by the man’s knees; he doubled up, and a knife scraped past his side. Before the blow could be repeated, Desmond got his hand about the yellow neck, jerked the man forward across his body, and wrenched himself sideways. This freed his pistol arm, but he did not fire. Instead, as he squirmed up over the yellow man, he struck a queer oblique blow with the pistol, and then a second. After this, Desmond rose and shook the sand out of himself, while the throat of the Manchu blackened in a pool beneath the stars.

  “It’s remarkable what ye can do with a pistol when the front sight is properly filed,” said Desmond calmly, stepping toward Rosemonde. No other assailants were in sight.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “You’re not hurt? He stabbed—”

  “Il n’y a rien de cassé,” returned Desmond. “They say in books that a man armed with a knife is at a positive disadvantage—and it’s true enough he is, after he’s missed his first lunge. The divil of it lies in makin’ him miss the first time.”

  “Your bullet passed within a foot of me—after doing its work,” said Rosemonde.

  “I know it,” answered Desmond contritely, “but I could not help it. Ye see, if you had not been here I could have attended to those fellows very decently, but havin’ to protect you as well as meself—”

  “Would you feel better, then, if I returned to camp?” demanded Rosemonde.

  “Heaven forgive me for savin’ it, but I would! Not that I think ye need protection, mind, but for me own peace of soul, because you’re the most distracting person I ever met, fairy mistress, and—”

  “Very well,” she broke in. Turning abruptly, she started back along the shore.

  Desmond looked after and rubbed his chin thoughtfully; she might be angry over her dismissal, but there was no help for it. He now wanted to take action upon his own account and was relieved that Rosemonde had returned.

  He was wondering why two of the Manchus, and no more, had been here; also, what had become of their boat. His shot seemed to have attracted no attention. It might or might not have been heard through the sullen but heavy booming of the surf. For ten minutes Desmond cautiously skirted the trees, hearing nothing. The place might have been an island of the dead, but he knew very well that it was nothing of the kind. No moon was up, but the sky was clear as blue-black crystal, and under it the starlit waters and reef and beach—a rare beauty in it that clutched at Desmond’s throat. The lagoon, black yet faintly radiant with phosphorescence, the peculiar sheen of the foaming reef like greenish-white jade, the opalescent coral dust of the beach, where the very sands leaped and quivered with invisible tropic life—

  “Damnation take it, I say!”

  The words leaped out in front of Desmond like a bomb. He halted crouched low, waited.

  “What’s his game, huh?” It was Balderson’s voice now, followed by a crashing of leaves. “He gives us a gun. All right. Why? What’s him and Desmond planning?”

  A light broke upon the listener. So O’Sullivan had slipped off, had carried Balderson one of his pistols! Why? Desmond laughed softly to himself, plainly perceiving the fiddler’s strategy. O’Sullivan had been thinking, also, of Arevalo’s money—the chest which was acting as a pot of honey to flies—and had provided Balderson with an aid toward the killing of the Manchus. Balderson was set upon killing, no doubt of this.

  “Dunno,” came a more sullen voice. “King and Billy are down to the south end, lookin’ for the boat; the chinks are lookin’, too.”

  “There was nothing at Desmond’s camp huh?” queried Balderson.

  “Nothin’,” responded the other. “One o’ them wimmen was stirring, so I didn’t stay. Their boat’s there, but not the other one. We can grab theirs at a pinch, I guess.”

  Balderson rumbled his Viking laugh. “Not until daylight, Tom—not until daylight! That man Desmond will be watching, huh? Takes no chances. Too many surprises waitin’ at night, but in the daytime you can see what you’re doing. Find the chink you knifed, huh?”

  “No,” growled the other. “But I got him right—plumb in the guts. Who was that shootin’ over here?”

  “Dunno,” said Balderson. “King, maybe, or Billy. The chinks are all split up tryin’ to find their blasted boat. Where in hell is that chest gone, huh?”

  “If we’d known earlier that they didn’t have no guns to mention,” said Tom, “we’d ha’ played hell with ’em! But that yellow devil bluffed us with his slimy talk. Maybe they sneaked that chest out to the schooner, Balderson.”

  “Huh?” The big Viking’s voice was startled and bovinely thoughtful. “Mebbe so, Tom, mebbe so. Hadn’t thought of it. B’lieve I’ll swim me out there and see, huh? We know there ain’t none aboard. It’s like them chinks to take the chest out and stick her some’er’s, huh? Hide her away. Then they come ashore with some dope, and their boats get lost come night. Damn queer, huh?”

  “Guess I’ll swim out with you,” said Tom. “Two can look better’n one.”

  Crouching lower against the sand Desmond saw the two black shapes against the stars, passing within a few yards of him. There was nothing to be feared from Balderson for the present, obviously.

  “It’s cleared up moss amazing all but the loss o’ the boat,” reflected Desmond. “All hands seem to be puzzled by that Thunder o’ Finn! Why didn’t I think to it meself? If it was Michael Terence, now, who stole that
boat, he’s a genius! That’s why there were only two of the Manchu back there; the prince has split up his men searching for the boat. And he’s ashore, somewhere to the south of here, and inland. Also, the treasure chest is iron, like most of ’em are sooner or later. But it’s not aboard the wreck; it’s close to wherever Prince Chin himself is. And to think of the amazing divil having maybe two or three guns, no more, but bluffing all of us with his power!”

  Turning abruptly into the trees, he headed across the island. There was little undergrowth; the trees were mostly of good size, the island being too low and storm-swept to admit of small growths. Consequently, Desmond found the progress easier than he had anticipated, the starlight aiding him greatly.

  Again and again he paused, vainly listening for some guiding sound. There was no sign of a light or campfire. Prince Chin was lying perdu—where? Where was the fiddler, that mad, lovable, half-dying Irishman?

  With the uncanny sharpening of the perceptions that comes with night and darkness, Desmond felt a sound. He heard nothing; but the slight, almost noiseless vibration of the air that touched his ear, was carried to his brain, and he halted instantly. Now the sound recurred, and he stood very motionless, holding down even his breathing. He sensed danger, and sensed it close at hand.

  Not from the sound, however; he had already recognized that as the hacking cough of O’Sullivan. It was somewhere among the trees, not far distant—but it was muffled nearly to nothing. Then, as he stood listening, he caught the timbre of a voice on the night; no words, just the formless tone. But he also recognized that as the voice of Prince Chan, the Manchu.

  Ah! A shadow materialized ten feet from him; a man was approaching him, silently, a blot against the stars. Desmond crouched low, moving an inch at a time, then crouched in absolute stillness. The dark figure came to within three feet of him and the flowing blouse betokened one of the Manchus, but not Prince Chan. For an instant Desmond saw the face, but the man turned about, listening. As he stood turned thus, Desmond rose and reached out with his reversed automatic. There was no sound beyond the slight thud. Catching the senseless man as he fell, Desmond searched him rapidly. He found two knives, heavy affairs with brutal steel-and-sharkskin handles, and took these; but no pistol. The man was a sentry. Somewhere beyond here was Prince Chan. Desmond delayed long enough to bind the man with strips of his own clothing, then rose and stepped forward. He had no doubt that O’Sullivan was with the Manchu prince.

  Five minutes afterward, Desmond came upon the object of his quest. A treeless hollow, ten yards across, opened in front of him. A faint whiff of wood smoke told him that there had been a campfire here during the day, although it was now extinct. The black figures of four men showed themselves.

  Prince Chan was speaking in English, his words carrying softly but distinctly:

  “If he coughs, then muffle him; he cannot help the cough. But if he tries to call out, stab him at once. You understand perfectly, my man?”

  “Divil fly away with you. I do!” answered the voice of O’Sullivan.

  Desmond, aided by the voices, distinguished that the fiddler was lying down, probably bound, while Prince Chan and two more Manchus sat beside him.

  “Will ye be giving me some dry clothes, now?” queried O’Sullivan, a shiver in his tone. “It’s a dying man I am unless—”

  “You have been for a little swim?” came the purring Oriental voice. “It was you who stole that boat?”

  “Yes, it was,” retorted O’Sullivan, defiant now. “And she’s gone where ye’ll not get her again, since I took her out beyont the reef on the ebb tide.”

  There was an interval of silence, followed by an exchange of low conversation among the Manchus. Prince Chan again reverted to English, a smooth menace in his voice:

  “You did this by Desmond’s order, my man?”

  “Sure I did,” said O’Sullivan audaciously. “Did we not discover what ye planned to do with us? So we joined in with Balderson, if ye want to know the truth of it.”

  “And Balderson has been killing my men tonight!”

  “I hope to hell he kills the whole pot of ye!”

  “Oh!” Prince Chan laughed softly, terribly. “And what do you expect me to do to you?”

  O’Sullivan did not answer. At the edge of the clearing, Desmond took one of the two heavy knifes and drew back his arm. With a flick of his wrist he sent the knife high in the air, clear over the glade, to fall with a tinkling clatter among the trees on the other side the clearing.

  CHAPTER XI

  OFF!

  At the sound occasioned by the falling knife the three Manchus leaped upright. But Desmond had already hurled the second knife, this time far to the right among the trees. As it crashed through the branches Desmond spoke unconcernedly and coolly.

  “All set, Balderson? Very well. Don’t any of you fire until I give the word, because I want a little talk with the prince. Don’t move now, Prince Chan. You are covered three ways!” From the prostrate O’Sullivan came a long breath like a deep sigh.

  There fell a momentary silence, broken again by Desmond’s voice.

  “Cut my friend loose, prince. Then you step this way and we’ll have a chat. Don’t worry about the wet clothes, Michael Terence, the salt water won’t hurt if it dries on you.”

  One of the standing figures stooped. A moment later O’Sullivan rose, stretching himself.

  “What about that gun o’ mine?” he inquired.

  “Prince Chan will give it to you. Then come over here.”

  “Here is your weapon,” said the prince smoothly. The fiddler took it and sauntered toward Desmond. Behind him followed the prince, until Desmond halted him.

  “That’ll do, me friend. Now, suppose ye tell us what was in that chest of Arevalo’s? Mr. Balderson thinks there was money to be had, and he’s uneasy.”

  “Money?” repeated Prince Chan, staring at the spot where Desmond stood. “Yes. There was something like two-hundred-thousand dollars in American notes.”

  “And where’s the chest now?”

  The voice of the Manchu rose in querulous, shrill rage.

  “May the gods curse you! It was made fast under the stern of the boat which this man set adrift—”

  “None o’ your lies!” snapped Desmond angrily. “How could a boat be drawn up ashore—”

  “Holy mackerel,” gasped O’Sullivan, now standing beside Desmond. “It’s the truth he speaks, sir—divil take me for a fool! The boat was anchored a few feet out from shore, and I noticed that she dragged in the water, like—oh, murder! And to think o’ me set tin’ her adrift an’ all! Mhuire as truagh on me for a fool!”

  This astounding intelligence put a damper upon Desmond. He had intended to put Prince Chan under restraint, then to lie in wait for Balderson as the latter swam back from the wreck and, after this, to dictate terms. Now however, he had nothing left to fight for; the incentive was removed.

  To take away any opium would be folly, since the stuff was contraband everyhere, and he had no ambitions to smuggle it. Arevalo’s chest was another matter, however. It was lawful loot, and now it was floating somewhere out upon the deep, carefully set adrift by O’Sullivan.

  “I could take a boot to ye, Michael Terence,” said Desmond severely, “but I will not. ’Twas all innocently ye acted and for the best.” Leaning over, he put his lips to the ear of the fiddler. “Back to camp with ye as fast as legs will carry you, me lad! Wake the ladies and get the stuff into the boat. We’ll have to get out of this in a hurry. Run! And look out for Balderson; he was over at the wreck last I saw of him.”

  O’Sullivan chuckled to himself, then faded into the background.

  “I’ll not bother ye further, prince,” said Desmond. “I believe it’s the truth you’re telling about the money; serves you right for hiding it from me. The wreck is yours, so make the most of it. As for Balderson—”

  “May the tenth hell swallow you!” cried out Prince Chan, sudden intuition giving him the truth of Desmond’s
ruse. Turning, the prince ran furiously across the clearing toward the point at which the supposed Balderson was concealed. Desmond laughed, seeing the two other Manchu join their prince. As the three reached the opposite trees, however, there was the flash and sharp report of a shot; Desmond felt the wind of the bullet.

  “Ah, ye would, ye slick divil!” He fired, and again. Then, whirling, he set back toward the beach at a run, ignorant whether his bullets had reached a mark.

  “There’ll be the divil to pay now, and no mistake!” he reflected as he steered a devious course among the trees. “Our boat is the only one available, and all three sides will want it. Whoever gets it first will stand a chance o’ finding the other boat; she can’t be far off now—”

  He had come to the edge of the trees, and there he paused, startled by the scene before him, where the white sand stretched down to the lagoon.

  Rising out of the water’s edge were two figures, and foremost of them was Balderson. About his tangle of hair had been wrapped his pistol belt, and he looked like some wild Poseidon upheaved by the sea, his great beard dripping over his chest.

  “Balderson!” Desmond started forward. “Get to cover, you fool! The yellow men are after me hot! I shot two of ’em. I’ve no love for ye, but unless ye want to be murdered look out for yourselves—”

  Balderson and his companion promptly rushed for shelter of the trees. Desmond slipped off to the left, confident that for the moment they would not trouble him, and then took to his heels.

  It was his hope to get clear away from the island without further encounters. As soon as Balderson discovered the boat to be gone entirely there would ensue a three-cornered fight for possession of Desmond’s craft, and Desmond meant to get away before Prince Chan could gather his men for an attack. The money was a secondary affair.

  “Michael Terence certainly put his foot in it tonight,” he reflected as he ran. “To steal the boat was a prime notion, but the lad went a step too far; then the chest of money under her stern settled everything. If we can get off, we might pick up the other boat ourselves, but for the sake o’ the ladies we’ll get off.”