He heard the Negroes clamoring out of the cabin and casting about, momentarily at a loss. He reached the shadows before they rounded the hut, and glancing back through the bushes, saw them running about the clearing like hunting dogs seek a spoor, howling in primitive blood-lust and disappointment. The growing moonlight glittered on the long knives in their hands.
He drew back further among the trees, finding the ground more solid underfoot than he had expected. Then he came suddenly upon the marshy edge of a stretch of black water. Something grunted and thrashed amidst it, and two green lamps burned suddenly like jewels on the inky water. He recoiled, well knowing what those twin lights were. And as he did so, he bumped full into something that locked fierce arms like an ape about him.
Harrison ducked and heaved, bowing his powerful back like a great cat, and his assailant tumbled over his head and thumped on the ground, still clutching the detective’s coat with the grip of a vise. Harrison lunged backward, ripping the garment down the back, wrenching his arms from the sleeves, in his frenzy to free himself.
The man leaped to his feet on the edge of the pool, snarling like a wild beast. Harrison saw a gaunt half naked black man with wild strands of hair caked with mud hanging over a contorted mask of a face, the thick loose lips drooling foam. This, indeed, he knew, was the dread Swamp Cat.
Still grasping Harrison’s torn coat brainlessly in his left hand, his right swept up with a sheen of sharp steel, and even as he sensed the madman’s intention, the detective ducked and fired from the hip. The thrown knife hummed by his ear, and with the crash of the shot the Swamp Cat swayed and pitched backward into the black pool. There was a threshing rush, the waters stormed foamily, there was a glimpse of a blunted, reptilian snout, and the trailing body vanished with it.
Harrison stepped back, sickened, and heard behind him the shouting progress of men through the bushes. His hunters had heard the shot. He drew back into the shadows among a cluster of gum trees, and waited, gun in hand. An instant later they rushed out upon the bank of the pool, John Bartholomew and his dusky knife-fighters.
They ranged the bank, gaping, and then Bartholomew laughed and pointed to a blood-stained piece of cloth that floated soggily on the foam-flecked waters.
“The fool’s coat! He must have run right into the pool, and the ‘gator’s got him! I can see them tearing at something, over there among the reeds. Hear those bones crack?” Bartholomew’s laugh was fiendish to hear.
“Well,” said the mulatto, “we don’t have to worry about him. If they send anybody in after him, we’ll just tell them the truth: that he fell into the water and got grabbed by the gators, just like Celia Pompoloi.”
“She wuz a awful sight when us foun’ huh body,” muttered one of the swamp Negroes.
“We’ll never find that much of him,” prophesied Bartholomew.
“Did he say what de Chinaman done?” asked another of the men.
“Just what the Chinaman said; that he’d murdered a man.”
“Wish he’d uh robbed uh bank,” murmured the swamp dweller plaintively. “Wish he’d uh brung uh lot uh money in wid him.”
“Well, he didn’t,” snapped Bartholomew. “You saw me search him. Now get back to the others and help them watch him. These Chinese are slippery customers, and we can’t take any chances with him. More white men may come looking for him tomorrow, but if they do, they’re welcome to all of him they can find!” He laughed with sinister meaning, and then added abruptly: “Hurry and get out of here. I want to be alone. There are spirits to be communed with before the hour arrives, and dread rites that I must perform alone. Go!”
The others bent their heads in a curious gesture of subservience, and trooped away, in the direction of the clearing. He followed leisurely.
Harrison glared after them, turning what he had heard over in his mind. Some of it was gibberish, but certain things were clear. For one thing, the Chinaman was obviously alive, and imprisoned somewhere. Bartholomew had lied about his own relations with the swamp people; one of them he certainly was not; but he was just as certainly a leader among them. Yet he had lied to them about the Chinaman’s money. Harrison remembered the mulatto’s expression when he had mentioned it to him. The detective believed that Bartholomew had never seen the money; that Woon Shang, suspicious, had hidden it himself before he was attacked.
Harrison rose and stole after the retreating Negroes. As long as they believed him dead, he could conduct his investigations without being harried by pursuit. His shirt was of dark material and did not show in the darkness, and the big detective was trained in stealth by adventures in the haunted dives of Oriental quarters where unseen eyes always watched and ears were forever alert.
When he came to the edge of the trees, he saw the four giants trooping down the trail that led deeper into the swamp. They walked in single file, their heads bent forward, stooping from the waist like apes. Bartholomew was just going into the cabin. Harrison started to follow the disappearing forms, then hesitated. Bartholomew was in his power. He could steal up on the cabin, throw his gun on the mulatto and make him tell where Woon Shang was imprisoned — maybe. Harrison knew the invincible stubbornness of the breed. Even as he ruminated, Bartholomew came out of the cabin and stood peering about with a strange furtiveness. He held a heavy whip in his hand. Presently he glided across the clearing toward the quarter where the detective crouched. He passed within a few yards of Harrison’s covert, and the moonlight illumined his features. Harrison was astounded at the change in his face, at the sinister vitality and evil strength reflected there.
Harrison altered his plans and stole after him, wishing to know on what errand the man went with such secrecy. It was not difficult. Bartholomew looked neither back nor sidewise, but wound a tortuous way among inky pools and clusters of rotting vegetation that looked poisonous, even in the moonlight. Presently the detective crouched low; ahead of the mulatto there was a tiny hut, almost hidden among the trees which trailed Spanish moss over it like a grey veil. Bartholomew looked carefully about him, then drew forth a key and manipulated a large padlock on the door. Harrison was convinced that he had been led to the prison of Woon Shang.
Bartholomew disappeared inside, closing the door. A light gleamed through the chinks of the logs. Then came a mumble of voices, too indistinct for Harrison to tell anything about them; that was followed by the sharp, unmistakable crack of a whip on bare flesh, and a shrill cry of pain. Enlightenment came to Harrison. Bartholomew had come secretly to his prisoner, to torture the Chinaman — and for what reason but to make him divulge the hiding place of the money, of which Harrison had spoken? Obviously Bartholomew had no intentions of sharing that money with his mates.
Harrison began to work his way stealthily toward the cabin, fully intending to burst in and put a stop to that lashing. He would cheerfully have shot down Woon Shang himself, had the occasion arisen, but he had a white man’s abhorrence of torture. But before he reached the hut, the sounds ceased, the light went out and Bartholomew emerged, wiping the perspiration of exertion from his brow. He locked the door, thrust the key in his pocket, and turned away through the trees, trailing his whip in his hand. Harrison, crouching in the shadows, let him go. It was Woon Shang he was after. Bartholomew could be dealt with later.
When the mulatto had disappeared, Harrison rose and strode to the door of the hut. The absence of guards was rather puzzling, after the conversation he had overheard, but be wasted no time on conjecture. The door was secured by a chain made fast to a big hasp driven deep into a log. He thrust his gun barrel through this hasp, and using it as a lever, pried out the hasp with no great difficulty.
Pulling open the door he peered in; it was too dark to see, but be heard somebody’s breath coming in jerky hysterical sobs. He struck a match, looked — then glared. The prisoner was there, crouching on the dirt floor. But it was not Woon Shang. It was a woman.
She was a mulatto, young, and handsome in her way. She was clad only in a ragged and scanty c
hemise, and her hands were bound behind her. From her wrists a long strand of rawhide ran to a heavy staple in the wall. She stared wildly at Harrison, her dark eyes reflecting both hope and terror. There were tear stains on her checks.
“Who the devil are you?” demanded the detective.
“Celia Pompoloi!” Her voice was rich and musical despite its hysteria. “Oh, white man, for God’s sake let me go! I can’t stand it any more. I’ll die; I know I will!”
“I thought you were dead,” he grunted.
“John Bartholomew did it!” she exclaimed. “He persuaded a yellow girl from ‘outside’ into the swamp, and then he killed her and dressed her in my clothes, and threw her into the marsh where the alligators would chew the body till nobody could tell it wasn’t me. The people found it and thought it was Celia Pompoloi. He’s kept me here for three weeks and tortured me every night.”
“Why?” Harrison found and lighted a candle stump stuck on the wall. Then he stooped and cut the rawhide thongs that bound her hands. She climbed to her feet, chafing her bruised and swollen wrists. In her scanty garb the brutality of the floggings she had received was quite apparent.
“He’s a devil!” Her dark eyes flashed murderously; whatever her wrongs, she obviously was no meek sufferer. “He came here posing as a priest of the Great Serpent. He said he was from Haiti, the lying dog. He’s from Santo Domingo, and no more priest than you are. I am the proper priestess of the Serpent, and the people obeyed me. That’s why he put me out of the way. I’ll kill him!”
“But why did he lick you?” asked Harrison.
“Because I wouldn’t tell him what be wanted to know,” she muttered sullenly, bending her head and twisting one bare foot behind the other ankle, school-girl fashion. She did not seem to think of refusing to answer his questions. His white skin put him beyond and outside swamp-land politics.
“He came here to steal the jewel, the heart of the Great Serpent, which we brought with us from Haiti, long ago. He is no priest. He is an impostor. He proposed that I give the Heart to him and run away from my people with him. When I refused, he tied me in this old hut where none can hear my screams; the swamp people shun it, thinking it’s haunted. He said he’d keep beating me until I told him where the Heart was hidden, but I wouldn’t tell him — not though he stripped all the flesh from my bones. I alone know that secret, because I am a priestess of the Serpent, and the guardian of its heart.”
This was Voodoo stuff with a vengeance; her matter-of-fact manner evinced an unshaken belief in her weird cult.
“Do you know anything about the Chinaman, Woon Shang?” he demanded.
“John Bartholomew told me of him in his boastings. He came running from the law and Bartholomew promised to hide him. Then he summoned the swamp men, and they seized the Chinaman, though he wounded one of them badly with his knife. They made a prisoner of him—”
“Why?”
Celia was in that vengeful mood in which a woman recklessly tells everything, and repeats things she would not otherwise mention.
“Bartholomew came saying he was a priest of old time. That’s how he caught the fancy of the people. He promised them an old sacrifice, of which there has not been one for thirty years. We have offered the white cock and the red cock to the Great Serpent. But Bartholomew promised them the goat- without-horns. He did that to get the Heart into his hands, for only then is it taken from its secret hiding place. He thought to get it into his hands and run away before the sacrifice was made. But when I refused to aid him, it upset his plans. Now he can not get the Heart, but he must go through with the sacrifice anyway. The people are becoming impatient. If he fails them, they will kill him.
“He first chose the ‘outside’ black man, Joe Corley, who was hiding in the swamp, for the sacrifice; but when the Chinaman came, Bartholomew decided he would make a better offering. Bartholomew told me tonight that the Chinaman had money, and he was going to make him tell where he hid it, so he would have the money, and the Heart, too, when I finally gave in and told him—”
“Wait a minute,” interposed Harrison. “Let me get this straight. What is it that Bartholomew intends doing with Woon Shang?”
“He will offer him up to the Great Serpent,” she answered, making a conventional gesture of conciliation and adoration as she spoke the dread name.
“A human sacrifice?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he muttered. “If I hadn’t been raised in the South myself, I’d never believe it. When is this sacrifice to take place?”
“Tonight!”
“Eh, what’s that?” He remembered Bartholomew’s cryptic instructions to his henchmen. “The devil! Where does it happen, and what time?”
“Just before dawn; far back in the swamp.”
“I’ve got to find Woon Shang and stop it!” he exclaimed. “Where is he imprisoned?”
“At the place of the sacrifice; many men guard him. You’d never find your way there. You’d drown and get eaten by the gators. Besides, if you did get there, the people would tear you to pieces.”
“You lead me there and I’ll take care of the people,” he snarled. “You want revenge on Bartholomew. All right; guide me there and I’ll see that you get plenty. I’ve always worked alone,” he ruminated angrily, “but the swamp country isn’t River Street.”
“I’ll do it!” Her eyes blazed and her white teeth gleamed in a mask of passion. “I’ll guide you to the place of the Altar.’ We’ll kill him, the yellow dog!”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“I could go there in an hour, alone. Guiding you, it will take longer. Much longer, the way we must go. You can’t travel the road I would take, alone.”
“I can follow you anywhere you walk,” he grunted, slightly nettled. He glanced at his watch, then extinguished the candle. “Let’s get going. Take the shortest route and don’t worry about me. I’ll keep up.”
She caught his wrist in a fierce grasp and almost jerked him out of the door, quivering with the eagerness of a hunting hound.
“Wait a minute!” A thought struck him. “If I go back to the cabin and capture Bartholomew—”
“He will not be there; he is well on his way to the Place of the Altar; better that we beat him there.”
CHAPTER III
Voodoo Lair
As long as he lived Harrison remembered that race through the swamp, as he followed Celia Pompoloi along pathless ways that seemed impossible. Mire caught at his feet, and sometimes black scummy water lapped about his ankles, but Celia’s swift sure feet always found solid ground where none seemed possible, or guided him over bogs that quaked menacingly beneath their weight. She sprang lightly from hummock to hummock, or slid between snaky pools of black slime where unseen monsters grunted and wallowed. Harrison floundered after her, sweating, half nauseated with the miasmic reek of the oozy slime that plastered him; but all the bulldog was roused in him, and he was ready to wade through swamps for a week if the man he hunted was at the other end of the loathsome journey. Dank misty clouds had veiled the sky, through which the moon shone fitfully, and Harrison stumbled like a blind man, depending entirely on his guide, whose dusky half-naked body was all but invisible to him at times in the darkness.
Ahead of them he began to hear a rhythmic throbbing, a barbaric pulsing that grew as they advanced. A red glow flickered through the black trees.
“The flames of the sacrifice!” gasped Celia, quickening her pace. “Hasten!”
Somewhere in his big, weary body Harrison found enough reserve energy to keep up with her. She seemed to run lightly over bogs that engulfed him to the knees. She possessed the swamp dweller’s instinct for safe footing. Ahead of them Harrison saw the shine of something that was not mud, and Celia halted at the verge of a stretch of noisome water.
“The Place of the Altar is surrounded by water on all sides but one,” she hissed. “We are in the very heart of the swamp, deeper than anyone ever goes except on such
occasions as these. There are no cabins near. Follow me! I have a bridge none knows of except myself.”
At a point where the sluggish stream narrowed to some fifty feet, a fallen tree spanned it. Celia ran out upon it, balancing herself upright. She swayed across, a slim ghostly figure in the cloudy light. Harrison straddled the log and hitched himself ignominiously along.
He was too weary to trust his equilibrium. His feet dangled a foot or so above the black surface, and Celia, waiting impatiently on the further bank as she peered anxiously at the distant glow, cast him a look over her shoulder and cried a sudden urgent warning.
Harrison jerked up his legs just as something bulky and grisly heaved up out of the water with a great splash and an appalling clash of mighty fangs. Harrison fairly flung himself over the last few feet and landed on the further bank in a more demoralized condition than he would have admitted. A criminal in a dark room with a knife was less nerve-shaking than these ghoulish slayers of the dark waters.
The ground was firmer; they were, as Celia said, on a sort of island in the heart of the marshes. The girl threaded her supple way among the cypresses, panting with the intensity of her emotions. Perspiration soaked her; the hand that held Harrison’s wrist was wet and slippery.
A few minutes later, when the glow in the trees had grown to an illuminating glare, she halted and slipped to the damp mold, drawing her companion with her. They looked out upon a scene incredible in its primitive starkness.
There was a clearing, free of underbrush, circled by a black wall of cypress. From its outer edge a sort of natural causeway wandered away into the gloom, and over that low ridge ran a trail, beaten by many feet. The trail ended in the clearing, the ultimate end of the path that Harrison had followed into the swamp. On the other side of the clearing there was a glimpse of dusky water, reflecting the firelight.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 388