“What the blitherin’ hell?” he screamed. “My God, we’re aground!”
From a litter of empty bottles Clanton rose unsteadily, stretched, yawned, spat and stared appreciatively at the jungle-fringed beach which — with only a narrow strip of shallow water between — stretched away from under the port bow.
“There’s your island, Bully!” he announced with a magnificent gesture.
Harrigan tore his hair and howled like a wolf. “Did you have to run her onto the beach, you son of a slut?”
“That could have happened to anybody,” asserted Clanton, and added reprovingly: “Where’s your pants?”
But the captain had seen the broken bottles, and his howl had all the poignancy of a stricken soul. Then he saw something else. Raquel, awakened by the noise, rose uncertainly, rubbing her eyes childishly. She made a face, tasting again all the square-face she had guzzled the night before.
Harrigan turned purple; his arm windmilled, to the fascination of the crew who watched from the deck below. He found words, lurid and frenetic.
“You stole my liquor!” he roared. “You had my girl here all night! You’ve run my ship aground, and by God, I’m goin’ to kill you, ambergris or no ambergris!”
He reached for his gun, only to discover that he wore neither gun nor belt. Bellowing he snatched a belaying pin from the rail and made at Clanton who smote him with such effect that the captain’s head fractured the binnacle as his whole body performed a parabola backward.
At this moment a frightful figure appeared at the head of the starboard ladder — Mr. Richardson, bedecked in bandages, and with one good eye gleaming eerily. Not even such a beating as he’d received yesterday could long keep a true bucko in his bunk. In his hand was a revolver, and this he fired point-blank. But Mr. Richardson’s one good eye was bleared, and his aim was not good. His bullet merely burned a welt across Clanton’s ribs, and before he could fire again, Clanton’s foot, striking his breastbone with great violence, catapulted him headlong down the ladder at the foot of which his head again met the deck with a force that rendered him temporarily hors-de-combat.
But Captain Harrigan had seized the opportunity to flee down the port ladder yelling: “Gimme my gun! I’ll shoot ’em both!”
“Overboard!” yelled Clanton to Raquel, and then as she hesitated, he grabbed her around the waist, tossed her over the rail, and leaped after her.
The plunge into the water snapped her out of her hangover; she screamed, gasped, and then struck out for the beach, followed by Clanton. They reached it just as Harrigan appeared on the poop with a triumphant howl and a Winchester, with which he opened up on them as they raced across the sands and dived into the trees.
Under cover Clanton paused and looked back. The antics of Harrigan on the poop moved him to hearty guffaws, smiting his dripping thigh. Raquel glared at him, wringing out her skirt, and raking back a wet strand of hair.
“What’s so funny about being marooned?” she demanded angrily.
He spanked her jocosely and replied: “Don’t worry, kid. When the schooner sails, we’ll be on her. You stay here and watch ’em while I go inland and look for fruit and fresh water. She’s not stuck bad; they can warp her off.”
“All right.” She shucked her wet dress and hung it up to dry, while she lay down on her stomach on the soft dry sand to peer through the bushes at the ship. She made an alluring picture thus, her pink chemise dripping from their submersion, fitting her tighter than a glove. Clanton admired the view for a moment, and then departed through the trees, striding lightly and softly for so big a man.
Raquel lay there, watching the men piling into boats, with hawsers, where presently they were employed in yanking the schooner loose, stern-first, by main strength and profanity. But it was slow work. The sun rose, and Raquel got impatient. She was hungry and very, very thirsty.
She donned her dress, now dry, and started out to look for Clanton. The trees were denser than she had thought, and she soon lost sight of the beach. Presently she had to climb over a big log, and when she leaped down on the other side, a bramble bush caught up her skirt, twisting it high about her ivory thighs. She twisted about in vain, unable to reach the clinging branch or to free her skirt.
As she squirmed and swore, a light step sounded behind her, and without looking around she commanded, “Bill, untangle me!”
Obligingly a firm masculine hand grasped her skirt and freed it from the branch, by the simple process of raising it several inches. But her rescuer did not then lower the garment; indeed Raquel felt him pull it up even higher — much higher!
“Quit clowning,” she requested, turning her head — and then she opened her lovely mouth to its widest extent and emitted a yell that startled the birds in the trees. The man who was holding her skirt in such an indelicate position was not Clanton. He was a big Kanaka in breech-clout. Raquel made a convulsive effort to escape, but a big brown arm encircled her supple waist. In an instant the peaceful glade was a hurricane-center, punctuated by lusty shrieks that a big hand clapped over red-lipped mouth could not altogether stifle.
Clanton heard those screams as he glided like a big bronzed tiger toward the beach. They acted on him like a jolt of electricity. The next instant he was in full career through the jungle, leaving behind him a sizzling wake of profanity. Crashing through the bushes, he burst full onto a scene, striking in its primitive simplicity.
Raquel was defending her virtue as vigorously as civilized nations defend mythical possessions. Her dress had been torn half off and her white body and limbs contrasted vividly with the brown skin of her captor. He wasn’t all brown, though; he was red in spots, for she had bitten him freely. So much so that irritation entered into his ardor, and, momentarily abandoning his efforts to subdue her by more pleasant means, he drew back an enormous fist for a clout calculated to waft her into dreamland.
It was at this moment that Clanton arrived on the scene and his bare foot, describing a terrific arc, caught the Kanaka under his haunches and somersaulted him clear over his captive, who scurried to her protector on her all-fours.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay on the beach?” Wham! In his irritation Clanton emphasized his reproof with a resounding, open-handed slap where he could reach her easiest. Raquel’s shriek was drowned in a vengeful roar. The Kanaka had regained his feet and was bounding toward them, swinging a knotty-headed war club he had leaned against a tree when he stole up on Raquel.
He lunged with a yell and a swing that would have spattered Clanton’s brains all over the glade if it had landed. But it flailed empty air as Clanton left his feet in a headlong dive that carried him under the swipe and crashed his shoulders against the Kanaka’s legs. Bam! They hit the earth together and the club flew out of the native’s hand.
The next instant they were rolling all over the glade in a desperate dog-fight, gouging and slugging. Then Clanton, in the midst of their frantic revolutions, perceived that Raquel had secured the club and was dancing about, trying to get a swipe at his antagonist. Clanton, knowing the average accuracy of a woman’s aim, was horrified. The Kanaka had him by the throat, trying to drive thumbs and fingers through the thick cords of muscle that protected the white man’s wind-pipe and jugular, but it was the risk of being accidentally brained by a wild swipe of Raquel’s club that galvanized Clanton to more desperate energy.
Fighting for an instant’s purchase, he drove his knee into the Kanaka’s groin, and the man gasped and doubled convulsively. Clanton broke away, kicking him heavily in the belly. Surprisingly the warrior gave a maddened yell, grabbed the foot and twisted it savagely. Clanton whirled to save himself a broken leg, and fell to his all-fours. At the same moment Raquel swung the too-heavy club. She missed as the Kanaka ducked, and she sprawled on her belly in the sand. Both men gained their feet simultaneously, but the Kanaka reached for the club. As he bent over Clanton swung his right over-hand like a hammer and with about the same effect. It crashed behind the Kanaka’s ear with the impact of a
caulking maul. The Kanaka stretched out in the sand without a quiver.
Raquel leaped up and threw herself hysterically in Clanton’s arms. He shook her loose, with lurid language.
“No time for a pettin’ party! There’s a whole village of the illegitimates over toward the other side of the island. I saw it! Come on!” He grabbed her wrist and fled toward the beach with her, panting: “Thick brush, men cussin’ on the ship. They wouldn’t hear the racket we’ve made — I hope.” She didn’t ask why. She clutched her tattered dress about her as she ran.
They burst onto the beach, and saw that the Saucy Wench was afloat; she was anchored in clear water off the shore, and Harrigan was oiling his rifle on the poop, with the be-bandaged Richardson beside him.
“Ahoy!” yelled Clanton from behind a tree. “Harrigan! I’ve found your ambergris!”
Harrigan started violently and glared, head-down like a surly bear.
“What’s that? Where are you? Show yourself!”
“And get shot? Like hell! But I’ll make a trade with you. I’ve hidden the stuff where you’ll never find it. But I’ll lead you to it if you’ll promise to take us aboard and put us ashore at some civilized port!”
“You fool!” whispered Raquel, kicking his shins. “He’ll promise anything, and then shoot us when he’s got the loot!”
But Harrigan was bellowing back across the strip of blue water.
“All right! Let bygones be bygones! I’m comin’ ashore!”
A few moments later a boat was making for the beach. Raquel danced in her nervousness; her torn dress revealed flashing expanses of ivory flesh.
“Are you crazy? They’ll kill us! And that native you knocked out will come to and get his tribe and—”
He grinned and stepped out on the beach, pulling her with him.
“They won’t shoot us till I show them the ambergris! I’ll take Harrigan inland; you wait here at the boat. And let me do the talkin’!”
She was not in the habit of meekly taking orders, but she lapsed into sulky and bewildered silence. She was badly scared.
Harrigan and Richardson piled out before the boat grounded. The captain had a Winchester, the mate a shotgun. They covered Clanton instantly.
“Stay here!” the captain told the half dozen men who had rowed him ashore. “Now then, Clanton, lead us to that ambergris, and no tricks!”
“Follow me!” Clanton led them into the jungle while behind at the boat, Raquel watched with dilated eyes and crawling flesh.
Clanton swung wide of the glade where — he hoped — the Kanaka still lay senseless. Hardly out of sight of the beach he stumbled over a root and fell. Sitting up he groaned, cursed and tenderly felt of his ankle.
“Blast the luck! It’s broken! You’ll have to rig a stretcher and carry me!”
“Carry you, hell!!” snorted Harrigan. “Tell us where the loot is, and we’ll go on and find it ourselves.”
“Go straight on about three hundred yards.” groaned Clanton. “Till you come to a clump of sago-palms. Then turn to the left and go on till you come to a pool of fresh water. I rolled the barrel in there.”
“All right,” grunted Harrigan. “And if we don’t find it, we’ll shoot you when we get back.”
“And we’re goin’ to shoot you whether we find it or not!” snarled Richardson. “That’s why we left the men on the beach — didn’t want no witnesses! And we’re goin’ to leave that wench to starve here with your skeleton when we sail. How you like that, huh?”
Clanton registered horrified despair, and both men chortled brutally as they strode away. They vanished among the trees, and Clanton waited a minute — five — ten — then he sprang up and sprinted for the beach.
He burst onto the beach so suddenly the bos’n nearly shot him.
“Pile in and row for the ship, Quick!” he yelled. “Cannibals! They’ve got Harrigan and the mate! Listen!”
Back in the jungle rose a sudden bedlam of shots and blood-freezing yells. It was enough. No heroic soul proposed a rescuing sortie. In another instant the boat was scudding for the schooner. Its occupants swarmed up the side, spurred by the rising clamor that was approaching through the jungle. Clanton stood on the poop and yelled orders, and they were obeyed without question.
The anchor came up with a rush, and the Saucy Wench was standing out to sea by the time the tribesman danced out on the beach. They swarmed to the water’s edge, three or four hundred of them, yelling vengefully. One waved a blood-splashed shotgun, another a broken Winchester.
Clanton grinned; the directions he had given his enemies had led them accurately — straight into the native village! He thumbed his nose at the baffled barbarians on the beach, and turned and addressed the crew.
“As the only man aboard who can navigate, and owner of the ship, I’m assuming the position of cap’n! Do I hear any objections?”
The bos’n demanded: “What you mean, owner of ship?”
“Me and Harrigan matched pennies,” asserted Clanton. “My share of the ambergris against the ship. I won.”
“What about the ambergris?” demanded a hardy soul.
Clanton nodded back toward the receding beach. “Anybody that wants to swim back there and fight those boys for it, is welcome to try!”
In the self-conscious silence that followed, he barked suddenly: “All right, get to work! Tail onto those lines! There’s a breeze makin’ and we’re headin’ for the Solomons for a load of niggers for Queensland!”
As the crew jumped briskly, Raquel nudged him.
“You didn’t find that ambergris,” she said, her eyes ablaze with admiration. “That wasn’t even the right island. That was all a lie!”
“I doubt if there ever was any ambergris,” quoth he. “The fellow that made that chart was probably crazy. To hell with it!” He patted her plump hip possessively and added: “I reckon you go with the ship; that bein’ the case I want to see you down in the cap’n’s cabin, right away!”
* * *
THE END
THE DRAGON OF KAO TSU
Fisrt published in Spicy Adventure Stories, September 1936
THE girl who stormed the back room of the Purple Dragon Bar where Wild Bill Clanton sat sipping a whiskey-and-soda, looked out of place in that dive. She advertised her place in the social register from her insolently tilted beret to her high French heels. She was tall and slender, but all her lines were supple and rounded, with melting curves that would make any man’s blood run faster. Just now her purplish eyes flashed and her pertly-tilted breasts swelled stormily.
“You,” she accused Clanton, “are a thief, a liar, and a rat!”
“So what?” he retorted unimpressed, as he poured another drink.
“Why, you low-lifed — !” Her refinement skidded a trifle in her resentment, and she began sketching his genealogy with language she never learned in the Junior League. He interrupted her peremptorily.
“Now you hold on! Some things nobody can call me, not even a lady! Sit down and cool off before somethin’ unpleasant happens to you!”
She wilted at the threat and drooped into the chair opposite him.
“This,” she said bitterly, “is what I get for associating with a gorilla like you. Why I do it, I don’t know.”
“I know,” he retorted. “Because you wanted Shareef Ahmed’s ivory dragon and I was the only man who could get it for you.”
“Yes, you were!” There was rancor in her tone, and her basilisk glare made him uneasy. You never could tell about these society dames! If she yanked a knife out of her garter, he meant to smack her down.
But she had no knife in her garter, as he could tell when she crossed her silk-clad legs with the regal indifference of a true aristocrat. She twitched down her skirt an inch or so, but not before he had a glimpse of white skin that made the blood boil to his head. Her indifference to his emotions was maddening.
Probably it had never occurred to Old Man Allison’s pampered daughter Marianne that a man on Clanton’s
social plane would even think of making a pass at her, but he had to clench his hands to keep them off of her.
“What’s eatin’ you?” he demanded.
FOR answer she produced something from her handbag and smacked it down accusingly before him. It was a small, pot-bellied ivory dragon, exquisitely carved and yellowed with age.
“It’s a fake!” she declared.
“It’s the one Ram Lal stole from Shareef Ahmed,” he asserted.
“It’s a fake,” she contended moodily. “Either you’ve gyped me, or that babu you hired to do the job has, or Ahmed’s fooled us all.”
“Well, what of it?” he asked. “All you want it for is to show to your society friends back in the United States and brag about it bein’ a rare antique. They won’t know the difference.”
“Some of them will,” she answered, lighting a cigarette with an injured air. “The collection of Oriental antiques is a great hobby in my set. It’s been a game to see who could get the rarest relic by fair means or foul. Betty Elston got hold of a priceless Ming vase in Canton, and she’s gloated over the rest of us until I’ve wanted to kick her little — well, anyway, I heard about the Kao Tsu dragon in San Francisco, and I came all the way to Singapore to get it. It dates from the Early Han Dynasty, and it’s the only one of its kind in the world. I knew Ahmed wouldn’t sell it, so I hired you to have it stolen for me.”
Clanton picked up the yellowed figure and turned it about.
“I dunno,” he mused. “Ram Lal got into Ahmed’s house and swiped this. He’s the slickest thief on the Peninsula. But if it’s the wrong one, he might be afraid to risk another try. Ahmed’s bad business.”
“But he’s been paid, and it isn’t the right dragon!” she snapped. “What kind of a man would he be to take money under false pretences?”
‘“Hire a thief and then squawk if he gyps you!” he mocked her. “But keep your shirt on. I’m a man of my word, anyway. I’ve taken your dough, and I aim to deliver the goods. Ram Lal’s so scared of Ahmed he’s hidin’ in an old warehouse down on the waterfront. Maybe he just got the wrong dragon by mistake. Or he may be boldin’ out on us for more dough. You leave this thing with me, and tonight I’ll go down there and talk to him. If he’s on the level, maybe he’ll try again. If he’s tryin’ to put somethin’ over, well, we’ll see.”
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 402