The Chinese steward staggered over a chock and fell headlong just as Jim leaped through the door. He stopped, dead still, feet spread wide.
Not six feet away, the huge orangutan was standing, its bloodshot eyes burning with hate. Its hands, arms, and face were stained with blood, and at its feet lay what was left of Romberg, a horror only to be recognized by the clothing. Then the ape sprang!
Mayo’s gun jerked up, and the trigger slammed on an empty chamber. Quickly, Jim dropped the gun and hurled his closed fist at the creature’s body. It landed solidly, and the beast gave a queer, gasping cry. Then one hand slapped across Jim’s face, knocking him against the bulkhead. The ape sprang, ripping the shirt from his shoulders. But Mayo swung aside, and then leaped, swinging a barrage of blows that knocked the big ape head over heels.
Slowly, the orangutan crawled to its feet. The murderous fury still blazed in its eyes, but it was wary now. This was a different mode of attack, something new. Suddenly, it grabbed the pipes overhead and hurled itself bodily through the air, feet first!
Jim tried to duck, but those feet struck him full on the chest and he turned a complete somersault, sprawling on the deck outside, gasping for breath. The ape sprang at him, snarling and screaming; but Jim rolled over and caught the animal with a vicious kick as it leaped toward him. It toppled back, and Jim smashed a right to the face.
The orangutan dropped to the deck and began to whimper.
Cautiously, Jim got to his feet, and prodded the ape below and into its cage. Then he snapped the lock that Romberg had unfastened. Somehow, the big ape had got to him before he could escape. Trained to hate men and to kill, the beast had acted violently.
Ponga Jim Mayo staggered back to the deck. There were no sounds of fighting now, but when he raised his head he saw a seaplane at anchor nearby. He went toward it.
Major Arnold was leaning against the deckhouse amidships lighting a cigarette. He lifted an eyebrow as he saw how battered Jim was.
“Fighting again?” he asked wearily. “Such brutality! Tsk, tsk, tsk!”
Ponga Jim looked very astonished.
“Me? Fighting? I’ve done more battling in the last few days than the whole Allied army has done since the war started!”
Arnold nodded. “We got Kessler. What happened to Romberg and Braunig?”
Ponga Jim told him briefly.
“The worst one got away,” the major said. “Heittn, his name was. We’ve been trying to get him for months.”
“Have a drink?” Jim invited.
The major nodded. “What were they carrying in those cases, Jim?”
“Ammunition and guns,” Jim replied. “It’d been chaos for us if they’d distributed them. I wasn’t certain of their cargo until we reached Tembau. Then I knew.”
“Well, here’s how,” said the major, downing his drink. Then, “Who-o-o-o! What was in that glass?”
“My own concoction. I call it a Barata Sling.”
“Gad!” breathed Major Arnold. “What action!”
“Action?” said Ponga Jim Mayo, laughing. “You mean reaction. Wait until you try to get up!”
The House of Qasavara
Ponga Jim Mayo looked toward the dark blotch of Bam Island.
“Easy does it,” he said, his eyes swinging toward Cape Wabusi. “Port a little…hold it!”
Quickly, Jim Mayo stepped to the Semiramis’s engine-room telegraph and jerked it to stop. They had reached anchorage.
“All right, Mr. Brophy,” he called. “Let go forward!”
He stood in the wing of the bridge of the freighter waiting to hear the splash of the anchor. Then he turned and went down the ladder.
Carol Sutherland got up quickly when he came into the ship’s saloon. His white-topped cap was at a jaunty angle, but she thought that without the gleam of humor that was never far from his eyes his bronzed face would have been a little grim.
“Are we there?” she asked. “Is this Broken Water Bay?”
Ponga Jim nodded. In the glow of the light her red-gold hair was like a flame.
“Yes, this is it. But you can’t go ashore tonight. It will be bad enough in the daytime.”
“But my father’s here, and—”
Her protest ended as he lifted a hand. The throb of engines down below had ceased, but there was another sound, the low, pulsing beat of drums rolling down from the dark, jungle-clad hills. She stopped, her mouth partly opened to speak, while the sound of the drums filled the room and seemed to pound with the same rhythm as the blood in her veins.
“Hear that?” he asked gravely. “Gets you, doesn’t it?” He waited for a moment, listening. “And those fellows are headhunters or cannibals, Stone Age men living in a land that time forgot. Think of it,” he said, waving a hand toward the lonely New Guinea shore. “Most of them have never seen a white man; thousands of them don’t know there is such a thing. This is the jungle, Miss Sutherland. And this is a lonely coast, where few ships come.”
“My father is here somewhere, Captain Mayo,” she said simply. “I must go to him.”
He shrugged. “If he’s ashore we’ll find him tomorrow. No boat leaves this ship before daybreak, I value my men too highly. Those boys ashore are stirred up. This whole country is throbbing with hate. There have been fifty-three natives who worked for white men killed within the past two weeks.”
JIM WALKED into his cabin, and when he returned he wore a gun in his shoulder holster.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I can’t figure what Colonel Sutherland would be doing on this coast. This Broken Water Bay is an unhealthy country in more ways than one, and certainly no spot for a plantation.”
“But I know he came here,” she protested. “I heard him mention the bay to this man who came to see him before he left. That man was coming, too. They were to land near the mouth of a small river, and I believe they were going to a village close by.”
“That’s impossible,” he said decidedly. “There isn’t any village near here. Those drums are fifteen miles from here at least.”
“But I heard them talk about looking for someone, about finding the House of Qasavara.”
“The House of Qasavara!” Ponga Jim stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why, no,” she exclaimed in surprise. “I—”
“But you told me your old man was looking for a plantation location near Broken Water Bay, and now you spring this here Qasavara business on me.”
“What’s strange about that?” she demanded. “I heard Daddy and this man talking about it, and supposed it was a native village nearby.”
Jim tossed his cap on the table and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Listen,” he said, exasperated. “Qasavara is a cannibal-spirit living back in that steamy jungle somewhere. The House of Qasavara is where he takes his victims, and where the natives offer sacrifices to him.
“Until a couple of months ago he’d almost been forgotten, then several bodies were found bitten by five poisonous teeth. One was found at Salamoa while we were there, another at Madang, a couple outside of Port Moresby, and one near the airport at Lae. Every one of them was a native employed by white men. Then last week twelve were found at one time, all of them marked by the five teeth of Qasavara.”
“But what can all that have to do with Father?” Carol asked. “I don’t understand.”
Jim shrugged. “You’ve got me, lady.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, and then he looked up, meeting her eyes. “Didn’t you tell me your father came from Sydney? That he worked for the government in some inspection service or something?”
“That’s right. And about six weeks ago he received a letter from Port Moresby that worried him, and decided to come up here. I came with him, but stopped in Port Moresby.”
“How about this guy who came to see him? Was he a slender, well-built fellow with a blond mustache? Military walk and all that?”
She nodded, puzzled. “Do you know him?”
“
Know him?” Jim chuckled. “He’s the best friend I’ve got. And sometimes I wonder if that’s saying anything at all.”
AFTER CAROL SUTHERLAND RETURNED to her cabin, Ponga Jim walked out on deck. It was completely dark, the sky spangled with stars, but no moon. In the blackness a quarter of a mile away was the darker shoreline and a faint, silver gleam from a rustle of surf.
Jim rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. It would be a joke on Arnold to show up here when Arnold had left him in Menado. And it must be a tough job or Major William Arnold would never have sent to Colonel Sutherland for assistance in breaking the case.
Yet he had seen in the few ports he had touched that the natives were frightened and surly. Whispers had come to him that all whites were to be murdered, and all those who worked for whites; that Qasavara had returned to claim Papua and would kill all Dutch and British people.
There was a stirring of unrest throughout the islands, and an outbreak now, calling for ships, money, and men, would be a severe blow to England. Besides, the Indies were the richest prize on earth, and to countries thirsting for colonies and expansion, they represented a golden opportunity.
Several times, Ponga Jim and Major William Arnold had spiked the guns of the Gestapo and other foreign agents working in the Indies. But those had been attempts at sinking ships and at destroying commerce in the islands. The present effort would stir much more strife than the former attempts.
Then he looked up and saw the head.
A native, his face frightfully painted with streaks of white, was crawling over the rail. Even as Ponga Jim’s eyes caught the movement, a dozen other bodies lifted into view and the rail was swarming with savages. Jim let out a yell and went for his gun.
At the first blast of fire three heads vanished. Another native, already on the deck, let out a wild yell and pitched over on his face. With a scream of rage a big savage hurled a spear that missed by an eyelash and then, jerking a stone hatchet from his belt, hurled himself at Jim, his face twisted with hatred.
Dropping into a crouch that sent the wild blow with the hatchet over his shoulder, Jim whipped a terrific left hook to the Papuan’s belly. Then he jerked erect and slammed the man alongside the head with a wicked, chopping blow from the barrel of his automatic. Without a sound the native dropped to the deck.
From the bridge a machine gun broke into a choking roar as burst after burst swept the rail and the boats thronging out from shore. Jim snapped a quick shot at a big headhunter running aft, and wheeled around to see Selim wrest a spear from another and run him through.
Abo, one of the seamen, was down on the deck, writhing with agony, but Tupa had jumped astride his murderer’s shoulders from the boat deck and buried a knife in the man’s neck.
As swiftly as they had come, they were gone, and the rail was littered with bodies. Jim ran to the taffrail and snapped a couple of quick shots at the boats. He was rewarded by seeing one native jerk to his feet and topple over the side.
Slug Brophy came running aft with Red Hanlon and two of the crew. All carried rifles.
“That’ll hold them,” Jim said drily. “I wonder what started that?”
Slug grinned. “You can’t chase all over the ocean mixing into trouble wherever you find it without getting guys after your scalp!” he said grimly. “These babies didn’t tackle this boat because it’s what they wanted, but because they were told to!”
“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “You got something there.”
Suddenly he thought of Carol and started forward on a run. He swung into the starboard passage and stopped dead still.
At the end of the passage her door swung idly with the slight roll of the ship, and the room beyond was lighted and empty. In the passage, a native woman lay on the floor, dead.
Jim swore viciously and leaped over the sprawled body. One glance told him that Carol was gone. Wheeling, he saw another native huddled in a corner, run through with his own spear. A groan startled him.
Whirling, gun in hand, he saw Longboy struggling to sit up, blood running from a gash on his scalp. Quickly, he knelt beside him.
“What was it, Boy?” he asked. “What happened?”
“Six, eight mans, they come overside while you fight. I see them. I hit one, knock him over. I throw marlinespike, get another one. Then pretty soon I in here, mans grab Missee, I sock ’em. Stick him with spear. Somebody shoot—bang, I no know what happen.”
Jim got to his feet. “Red, get this man to the steward, you hear? Slug, we’re going ashore. Those babies can’t travel much faster than we can. I brought that dame down here, and I’ll see she gets to her old man in one piece. Gunner stays here in charge. I’ll take you, Selim, Tupa, Abdul, the Strangler, and Hassan. We’ve got to move fast!”
When the boat touched the sand the moon was just lifting over the horizon. Jim Mayo shifted his rifle to his left hand.
“Red, you and Fly Johnny take the boat back,” he ordered. “I’ll keep Singo and Macabi with the rest of us. We might stumble into a tough scrap. Tell the Gunner to get the hook up if I’m not back by daylight and take her around to the Sepik. If we don’t get them we’ll pick you up about two miles up off Sago Bar.”
Turning quickly, he struck off at a rapid walk. The natives would be traveling fast, as they would not expect pursuit before daylight and there was little chance of an ambush near the bay. Giant ficus trees spread their aerial roots beside the path, and there was heavy undergrowth, mostly ferns and sugarcane. The jungle shut in suddenly, dark and ominous.
PONGA JIM SLOWED his pace. Just how many men were in the band ahead he could not guess. Probably forty or fifty, for there had been nearly a hundred in the attacking party, and fearful execution had taken place along the rail and in some of the boats.
Slug hurried up alongside Jim. His short, powerful body moved as easily and rapidly as any one of the long, lithe seamen behind. “Skipper, I hate to think of them Guineas having Miss Sutherland. That girl was a bit of all right.”
“Yeah,” Jim nodded gravely. “You bet she was. But I’m not worried about them. That attack was planned by a white man for a purpose. You know what I think, Slug? Somebody knew that girl was aboard!”
“You mean they jumped us just to get her?”
“That’s just what I mean. At first, I thought it was some of the same bunch we’ve had trouble with, and they recognized the boat. I thought maybe they were afraid we were going to butt in again. But now I think they had some spy who saw the girl come aboard in Port Moresby or saw her at Salamoa. The attack was a blind so that under cover they could get her.”
“But what’s the idea? What good would she be to them?”
“None, unless—” Jim hesitated, frowning.
“Unless what?”
“Unless they’ve got her father, and probably Arnold. They could use her to put pressure on Sutherland and Arnold, to make them give up a lot of information that both of them have.”
Slug hitched his gun a little and swore under his breath. He knew only too well what fiendish tortures those savages could think of, but it wasn’t the Papuans who would be worst, for the civilized men who led them would be most dangerous.
In the damp light of dawn they stopped for a hurried lunch. All the men were silent, grim. Jim scouted out along the trail with Tupa. Tupa knelt in the mud, pointing.
“See? They come this way,” he said.
Jim studied the marks of high heels thoughtfully. Several times during the night his flashlight had picked them out along the trail among the tracks of other men. Now, in the growing light of day, they were plainer.
Ponga Jim swore suddenly.
“Slug!” he called. Brophy came running. “Look at those tracks! Carol Sutherland never made those! She’ll weigh about a hundred and fifteen, and by now she’d be tired. Yet those steps are light. They’ve got a child or a girl wearing those shoes!”
Brophy scowled. “But where the hell—”
“The river!” Jim said suddenly. “They made for the river. Get
that stuff out of the way and let’s go!”
In a matter of minutes the packs were made, and Ponga Jim led off into the jungle at a rapid walk. As he walked, his mind worked rapidly. It could be either Heittn or Petrel, but somehow he believed this last attack was by someone new to him.
William, not so long since, had mentioned something about two German agents, Blucher and Kull, who had come into the Indies. Despite the loneliness of some sections of the New Guinea coast, it would be a poor place from which to operate. His common sense told him that the seat of the trouble would be in the dark and little-known interior. Legends placed the House of Qasavara somewhere in the unknown country at the headwaters of the Sepik.
They were following a well-beaten trail, and Jim paused from time to time to listen, but heard no sound. He was sure the trail would bring him out somewhere near Sago Bar, where he could intercept the Semiramis. Despite time and trouble, regardless of danger, it was up to him to follow the natives who had captured Carol Sutherland. Also, there was a chance Arnold was somewhere up the river and in terrible danger.
DAWN WAS JUST BREAKING when they came out on the bank of the river. About a mile wide, it rolled rapidly seaward, bearing here and there a giant tree or snag floated from the jungle upriver. The flood season was past, but the water was still high. The Sepik would carry a boat that didn’t draw more than thirteen feet for at least three hundred miles. With a good deal of extra water, there was a chance he could go much farther than that.
Tupa glided to his side, moving soundlessly.
“Papua boy, he come!” he whispered, pointing up the bank.
Moving toward him in the early light of dawn he saw a dozen powerful savages.
“Wussi River boy,” Tupa said softly. “They bad. Plenty mean.”
The Wussi River was some distance west, and these warriors were far off their usual beat. Ponga Jim shifted his rifle to the hollow of his arm and waited. His dealings with the natives there had been friendly, but for the most part they were a surly bunch. Many of them understood a few words of German and called small coins “marks.” Obviously, a remnant of the touch of civilization acquired when the Germans had owned that section, prior to the world war.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 38