Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  This time I seen he’d never beat the count, so I retired to the furtherest corner and grinned at Slim and the other cowboys, who was doing a Indian scalp-dance while the miners was shrieking for Biff to get up.

  Menly was counting over him, and, just as he said “seven,” a sudden rattle of shots sounded. Menly stopped short and glared at the mine, half a mile away. All of us looked. A gang of men was riding around the buildings and shooting in them. Menly give a yell and hopped out of the ring.

  “Gang up!” he yelled. “It’s Lopez and his men! They’ve come to do all the damage they can while the mine’s unguarded! They’ll burn the office and ruin the machinery if we don’t stop ‘em! Come a-runnin’!”

  He grabbed a horse and started smoking across the flat, and the crowd followed him, the cowboys on horses, the rest on foot, all with their guns in their hands. Slim jumped down and said to Miss Joan: “You stay here, Miss Joan. You’ll be safe here and we’ll be back and finish this prize fight soon’s we chase them Greasers over the hill.”

  WEll, i was plumb disgusted to see them mutts all streak off across the flat, leaving me and Biff in the ring, and me with the fight practically won. Biff shook hisself and snorted and come up slugging, but I stepped back and irritably told him to can the comedy.

  “What’s up?” said he, glaring around. “Why, where’s Menly? Where’s the crowd? What’s them shots?”

  “The crowd’s gone to chase Lopez and his merry men,” I snapped. “Just as I had you out, the fool referee quits countin’.”

  “Well, I’d of got up anyhow,” said Biff. “I see now. It is Lopez’s gang, sure enough—”

  The cow-punchers and miners had nearly reached the mine by this time, and guns was cracking plenty on both sides. The Mexicans was drawing off, slowly, shooting as they went, but it looked like they was about ready to break and run for it. It seemed like a fool play to me, all the way around.

  “Hey, Steve,” said Biff, “whatsa use waitin’ till them mutts gits back? Let’s me and you get our scrap over.”

  “Please don’t start fighting till the boys come back,” said Joan, nervously. “There’s something funny about this. I don’t feel just right. Oh—”

  She give a kind of scream and turned pale. Outa the ravine behind the ring rode a Mexican. He was young and good-looking but he had a cruel, mocking face; he rode a fine horse and his clothes musta cost six months’ wages. He had on tight pants which the legs flared at the bottoms and was ornamented with silver dollars, fine boots which he wore inside his pants legs, gold-chased spurs, a silk shirt and a jacket with gold lace all over it, and the costliest sombrero I ever seen. Moreover, they was a carbine in a saddle sheath, and he wore a Luger pistol at his hip.

  “Murder!” said Biff. “It’s Lopez the Terrible!”

  “Greetings, senorita!” said he, with a flash of white teeth under his black mustache, swinging off his sombrero and making a low bow in his saddle. “Lopez keeps his word — have I not said I would come for you? Oho, I am clever. I sent my men to make a disturbance and draw the Americanos away. Now you will come with me to my lair in the hills where no gringo will ever find you!”

  Joan was trembling and white-faced, but she was game. “You don’t dare touch an American woman, you murderer!” she said. “My cowboys would hang you on a cactus.”

  “I will take the risk,” he purred. “Now, senorita, come—”

  “Get up here in the ring, Miss Joan,” I said, leaning down to give her a hand. “That’s it — right up with me and Biff. We won’t let no harm come to you. Now, Mr. Lopez, if that’s your name, I’m givin’ you your sailin’ orders — weigh anchor and steer for some other port before I bend one on your jaw.”

  “I echoes them sentiments,” said Biff, spitting on his gloves and hitching at his trunks.

  Lopez’s white teeth flashed in a snarl like a wolf’s. His Luger snaked into his hand.

  “So,” he purred, “these men of beef, these bruisers dare defy Lopez!” He reined up alongside the ring and, placing one hand on a post, vaulted over the ropes, his pistol still menacing me and Biff. Joan, at my motion, hadst retreated back to the other side of the ring. Lopez began to walk towards us, like a cat stalking a mouse.

  “The girl I take,” he said, soft and deadly. “Let neither of you move if you wish to live.”

  “Well, Biff,” I said, tensing myself, “we’ll rush him from both sides. He’ll get one of us but the other’n’ll git him.”

  “Oh, don’t!” cried Joan. “He’ll kill you. I’d rather—”

  “Let’s go!” roared Biff, and we plunged at Lopez simultaneous.

  But that Mex was quicker than a cat; he whipped from one to the other of us and his gun cracked twice. I heard Biff swear and saw him stumble, and something that burned hit me in the left shoulder.

  Before Lopez couldst fire again, I was on him, and I ripped the gun outa his hand and belted him over the head with it just as Biff smashed him on the jaw. Lopez the Terrible stretched out limp as a sail-rope, and he didn’t even twitch.

  “Oh, you’re shot, both of you!” wailed Joan, running across the ring toward us. “Oh, I feel like a murderer! I shouldn’t have let you do it. Let me see your wounds.”

  Biff’s left arm was hanging limp and blood was oozing from a neat round hole above the elbow. My own left was getting so stiff I couldn’t lift it, and blood was trickling down my chest.

  “Heck, Miss Joan,” I said, “don’t worry ‘bout us. Lucky for us Lopez was usin’ them steel-jacket bullets that make a clean wound and don’t tear. But I hate about me and Biff not gettin’ to finish our scrap—”

  “Hey, Steve,” said Biff hurriedly, “the boys has chased off the bandits and heered the shots, and here they come across the flat on the run! Let’s us finish our go before they git here. They won’t let us go on if we don’t do it now. And we may never git another chance. You’ll go off to your ship tomorrer and we may never see each other again. Come on. I’m shot through the left arm and you got a bullet through your left shoulder, but our rights is okay. Let’s toss this mutt outa the ring and give each other one more good slam!”

  “Fair enough, Biff,” said I. “Come on, before we gets weak from losin’ blood.”

  Joan started crying and wringing her hands.

  “Oh, please, please, boys, don’t fight each other any more! You’ll bleed to death. Let me bandage your wounds—”

  “Shucks, Miss Joan,” said I, patting her slim shoulder soothingly, “me and Biff ain’t hurt, but we gotta settle our argument. Don’t you fret your purty head none.”

  We unceremoniously tossed the limp and senseless bandit outa the ring and we squared off, with our rights cocked and our lefts hanging at our sides, just as the foremost of the cow-punchers came riding up.

  We heard the astounded yells of Menly, Slim and the rest, and Miss Joan begging ’em to stop us, and then we braced our legs, took a deep breath and let go.

  We both crashed our rights at exactly the same instant, and we both landed — square on the button. And we both went down. I was up almost in a instant, groggy and dizzy and only partly aware of what was going on, but Biff didn’t twitch.

  The next minute Menly and Steve and Tex and all the rest was swarming over the ropes, yelling and hollering and demanding to know what it was all about, and Miss Joan was crying and trying to tell ’em and tend to Biff’s wound.

  “Hey!” yelled Yuma, outside the ring. “That was Lopez I seen ride up to the ring a while ago — here he is with a three-inch gash in his scalp and a fractured jawbone!”

  “Ain’t that what Miss Joan’s been tellin’ you?” I snapped. “Help her with Biff before he bleeds to death — naw, tend to him first — I’m all right.”

  Biff come to about that time and nearly knocked Menly’s head off before he knowed where he was, and later, while they was bandaging us, Biff said: “I wanta tell you, Steve, I still don’t consider you has licked me, and I’m figgerin’ on lookin’ you up soon
’s as my arm’s healed up.”

  “Okay with me, Snoots,” I grinned. “I gets more enjoyment outa fightin’ you than anybody. Reckon there’s fightin’ Texas feud betwixt me and you.”

  “Well, Steve,” said Slim, “we said we’d make it worth your while — what’ll it be?”

  “I wouldn’t accept no pay for fightin’ a old friend like Biff,” said I. “All I wantcha to do is get me back in port in time to sail with the Sea Girl. And, Miss Joan, I hope you don’t feel scared of me no more.”

  Her answer made both me and Biff blush like school-kids. She kissed us.

  * * *

  THE SIGN OF THE SNAKE

  First published in Action Stories, June 1931

  I WAS ready for trouble. Canton’s narrow waterfront streets were still and shadowy in that hour before dawn when I left the docks. The guttering street lamps gave little light. My bulldog, Bill, bristled suddenly and began to rumble in his throat. There was a rattle of feet on the cobblestones down an alley to the right. Then the sound of a heavy fall, scuffling, a strangled scream.

  Plainly it was none of my business. But I quickened my pace and dashing around the corner, nearly fell over a writhing, struggling mass on the cobblestones. The dim light of a street lamp showed me what was going on. Two men fought there in deadly silence. One was a slim young Chinese in European clothes. Down on his back in the muck, he was. Kneeling on his chest was a slant-eyed devil in native riggings. He was big and lean, with a face like a Taoist devil-mask. With one talon-like hand, he clutched the throat of the smaller man. A knife flashed in his other hand.

  I recognized him for what he was — one of the bloody hatchet-men the big tongs and secret societies use for their dirty work. I followed my natural instinct and knocked him senseless with a smashing right hook behind the ear. He stretched out without a twitch and the young Chinese sprang up, gasping and wild eyed.

  “Thank you, my friend,” he gurgled in perfect English. “I owe my life to you. Here, take this...” And he tried to stuff a wad of banknotes into my hand.

  I drew back. “You owe me nothing,” I growled. “I’d have done as much for any man.”

  “Then please accept my humble and sincere thanks,” he exclaimed, seizing my hand. “You are an American, are you not? What is your name?”

  “I’m Steve Costigan, first mate of the trading vessel Panther,” I answered.

  “I will not forget,” he said. “I will repay you some day, as my name is Yotai T’sao. But now I must not linger. This is my one chance of escape. If I can get aboard the English ship that is anchored in the bay, I am safe. But I must go before this beast comes to. Best that you go too. May fortune attend you. But beware of the Yo Thans.”

  The next instant he was racing down the street at full speed. Watching him in amazement, I saw him sprint onto the docks and dive off, without the slightest pause. I heard the splash as he hit and a little later I saw, in the growing gray light, a widening ripple aiming toward the British S.S. Marquis, which lay out in the bay. I left off wondering what it could mean, when the hatchet-man scrambled uncertainly to his feet. More or less ironically, I said: “Well, my bully boy, give me the low-down on this business, will you?”

  His answer was a look of such diabolic hatred as to almost send cold shivers down my spine. He limped away into the shadows. I dismissed the whole affair from my mind and went on down the street.

  About sun-up I decided I would get a little sleep in preparation for the day. It was my first shore leave in weeks, and I was determined to make the most of it. I turned into a seamen’s boarding house kept by a Eurasian called Diego, got a room and turned in.

  I was wakened by Bill’s growling. He was clawing at the locked door and looking up at the transom, which was open. Then I saw something lying on my chest — a piece of stiff paper, rolled into a dart-shaped wad. I unrolled it, but there were no words on it, either English or Chinese, just a picture portraying a coiled snake, somewhat resembling a cobra. That was all.

  Somewhat puzzled, I rose and dressed and shouted for Diego. When he came I said: “Look, Diego. Someone threw this through the transom onto my chest. Do you know what the meaning of it is.”

  He took a single look. Then he leaped back with a shriek: “Yo Than. Death. It’s the murder sign of the Yo Thans.”

  “What do you mean?” I growled. “Who are these Yo Thans?”

  “A Chinese secret society,” gasped Diego, white and shaking like a leaf. “International criminals — murderers. Three times have I seen men receive the sign of the snake. Each time he who received it dies before the sun rose again. Get back to your ship. Hide, stay aboard until she sails. Maybe you can escape.”

  “Skulk aboard my ship like a cringing rat?” I growled. “I, who am known as a fighting man in every Asiatic port? I’ve never run or hidden from any man yet. Tell me, who is Yotai T’sao?”

  But Diego was gripped by the yellow hand of fear.

  “I’ll tell you nothing,” he screamed. “I’m risking my life talking to you. Get out, quick. You mustn’t stay here. I can’t have another murder in my house. Go, please, Steve.”

  “All right,” I snapped. “Don’t burst a blood-vessel, Diego. I’m going.”

  In disgust, I stalked forth in quest of food. While I ate and Bill had his scoffings from a panikin on the floor, I reviewed the situation and had the uncomfortable feeling that I had somehow blundered into the affairs of some mysterious gang of Oriental cut-throats. Under the bland outer surface of the Orient run dark and mysterious currents of plot and intrigue, unknown to white men — unless one unluckily goes beyond his depth in native affairs and is caught by some such deadly undertow.

  In that case... Well, it is no uncommon thing for a white man to disappear, to simply vanish as into thin air. Perhaps he is never heard of again. Perhaps his knife-riddled body is found floating in the river, or cast up on the beach. In either event, only silence rewards investigations. China never speaks. Like a vast, sleeping yellow giant she preserves her ancient and mysterious silence inviolate.

  Finishing my meal, I sauntered out into the streets again, with their filth and glamor, sordidity and allure going hand in hand; throngs of Orientals buying and selling, bargaining in their monotonous sing-song, sailors of all nations rolling through the crowds...

  I began to have a queer feeling that I was being followed. Again and again I wheeled quickly and scanned the crowd, but in that teeming swarm of yellow slant-eyed faces it was impossible to tell whether anyone was trailing me. Yet the sensation persisted.

  As the day wore on I found myself in Froggy Ladeau’s American Bar, at the edge of the waterfront district. There I spied a man I knew — an Englishman named Wells, who had some sort of a government job. I sat down at his table. “Wells,” I said, “did you ever hear of a man named Yotai T’sao?”

  “That I have,” he answered. “But I fear the blighter’s been potted off. He’s been working with the government trying to get evidence against a certain gang of dangerous criminals and last night he disappeared.”

  “He’s all right,” I replied. “I saw him swim out to an English ship which weighed anchor shortly after sun-up. But who are these criminals?”

  “Bad blokes,” said Wells, taking a long swig of ale. “An organized society. It’s rumored their chief is a coral button mandarin. They specialize in murder and blackmail, to say nothing of smuggling, gun-running and jewel-stealing. Of late they’ve been tampering with bigger things — governmental secrets. The Yo Thans, they’re called. The government would jolly well like to lay hands on them. But you’ve no idea what snaky customers they are. They’re here, there and everywhere. We know they exist, but we can’t nab the beggars. If the natives would talk — but they won’t, and there’s China for you. Even victims of the society won’t blab. So what can we do?

  “But the government has gotten a promise of assistance from the most Honorable and Eminent Yun Lai Kao. You’ve heard of him?”

  “Sure,” I no
dded. “Sort of a wealthy Oriental recluse and philanthropist, isn’t he?”

  “That and more. The natives look on him as a sort of god. He has almost unbelievable power in Canton, though he’s never bothered to wield it very much. He’s a philosopher — too busy considering abstract ideals and principles to bother with material things. He seldom ever appears in public. It was the very deuce to get him interested enough in sordid reality to promise to help the government scotch a gang of thugs. That shows, too, how helpless the government really is in this matter, when it has to call on private individuals. The only argument that moved him was the assurance that the Yo Thans are swiftly assuming a political importance, and were likely to start a civil war in China.”

  “Is it that important?” I asked, startled.

  “Believe me, it is. These things grow fast. The unknown power, the nameless man, directing the activities of these thugs, is ruthless and clever as the devil, quite capable of raising the red flag of anarchy if he gets a little more power. China is a powder keg, ready for some unscrupulous rogue to set it off. No conservative Chinese wants that to happen. That’s why Yun Lai Kao agreed to help. And with his power over the natives, I believe the government will lay the Yo Thans by the heels.”

  “What sort of a man is this mandarin, Yun Lai Kao?” I asked. “A venerable, white bearded patriarch, with ten-inch finger nails encased in gold and a load of Confucian epigrams?”

  “Not by a long shot,” answered Wells. “He doesn’t look the type of a mystic at all. A clean-cut chap in middle life, he is, with a firm jaw and gimlet eyes — a graduate from Oxford too, by the way. Should have been a scientist or a soldier. Some queer quirk in his Oriental mind turned him to philosophy.”