The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Only one native had contested his identity, and that native had been dropped to the sharks.

  “What happened to the fifth plane?” Red asked the colonel.

  “It turned back,” Moberly answered shortly.

  Later in the forenoon, as Red threaded his way over the jungle trails, followed by a line of three thousand native troops, he found himself conversing with his invisible friend again. Through Longworth he learned that the fifth plane had been that of Hester Wembridge and her party.

  “Why was she following us?”

  “I fixed matters up so she’d have to come along,” said Longworth.

  “Why?”

  “To prove to the colonel that she’s a traitor.”

  Longworth explained that it had all started when he found himself standing completely visible before the airraid alarm switch during the wedding. The crowd had come out on the double-quick and he had fallen in with them. And before he could duck out of sight and go invisible, the colonel had engaged him in conversation.

  “I confided in him,” Longworth whispered. “It seemed the thing to do. I told him his good angel was a devil.”

  “And he wouldn’t believe you?”

  “Exactly. But I told him he could prove it to his own satisfaction. Hester Wembridge had provided the guide for this trek across G. But the guide, I said, was a phony. And Wembridge knew it. She meant him to be a phony. She had even seen to it that natives had murdered the real Red Stephens.”

  “And your proof?”

  “Simply order her to come along and face death with you and the rest. I told the colonel I’d bet him my neck that she wouldn’t dare come. My challenge made him sore but he took it, by George, and persuaded her to jump in her plane and follow.”

  “What made her drop out?”

  “She’s clever. She followed long enough to pull the wool over his eyes. Then she complained that she was receiving radio communications about the Melbourne disaster. So the colonel phoned back to her that he’d let her off so she could fly back.”

  “Then he still thinks she’s on the level?”

  “Yes—and that I’m the phony, not you.”

  “Did you talk with him after she turned back?”

  “I was going to,” Longworth whispered, “but when I suddenly appeared, sitting beside him in the plane, he plunged to the floor in a faint. So I faded out.”

  Red Stephens groaned aloud, and Colonel Moberly and three native chiefs trudging along beside him wanted him to stop and take some medicine. It took ten minutes of arguing to convince them he wasn’t sick; he often groaned when he was thinking.

  Not until they reached a brook and stopped for a drink did he try to resume his clandestine conversation with Longworth.

  “I don’t know what will come of Hester Wembridge, fellow,” he whispered. “She’s a tough nut to crack. Her reputation is too sound. Yours, fellow, is too shaky.”

  Longworth didn’t answer.

  “As for my own reputation,” Red went on, “it’s not going to be worth a damn after I get myself lost in the jungles.”

  No answering whisper.

  “But I’ve a bone to pick with you, old boy,” Red said. “The way you let us down on that wedding—Longworth, are you there?”

  Silence.

  “Longworth! Come back here. You can’t let me down like this. I’ve got to have you. You’ve got to spy out the danger spots . . . Longworth! . . . Ye gods, what’ll I do? . . . What do I know about the jungles?”

  Three thousand friendly native troops were willing to do their part to win the war for the Allied Nations.

  They were armed with rifles; their pack animals were loaded with ammunition. As for food and shelter, any part of the island would provide bountifully.

  The four planes, carrying all of the colonel’s staff and equipment, had flown on ahead, to make sure the coast was clear, and to scout the shores for any signs of trouble.

  The colonel himself, however, had chosen to accompany Red Stephens and the troops on foot.

  The colonel, as Red realized, was exceedingly ill at ease over the previous day’s happenings. Red’s every act, from his arrival at Sydney to his abrupt farewell to his new bride, had been indicative of a confused and erratic state of mind.

  And still the colonel was so convinced that Red Stephens was the only man for this job that he had not once stopped to reconsider his original plans.

  The natives carried the colonel’s portable radio, and messages came in from the planes from time to time to keep the marching men fully informed of all findings.

  The general destination of the entire movement was the north shore of the hour-glass shaped island. The troops were crossing the narrow mountainous neck of that hour-glass, and the messages assured them that no Japanese landings threatened the northern shore. The danger was that trouble might close in from either the west or the east lobes of the island.

  The warlike native troops of these interior areas had already been incited by small Jap scouting parties to make their share of trouble.

  The amazing thing to Red Stephens, as he picked his trail northward, was that this line of three thousand natives followed him with such childlike confidence. It was the magic of leadership.

  It was the miracle of crashing through old tribal fears and taboos that ordinarily keep these troops on the southern slopes of the divide.

  By noon the blue waters were far behind them.

  By nightfall they had covered twenty miles to make camp on the farther side of the divide.

  In the morning Red Stephens climbed alone to a high observation point to glimpse the farther shores.

  “Taboo land.” That was the interpretation of the natives’ jabber.

  “Taboo has new meanings,” Moberly said gravely, “now that these warriors have heard of Japanese bombs and subguns.”

  Red Stephens’ lips tightened. He said nothing.

  “But you and I know,” the colonel continued, “that these braves will hurl themselves into the jaws of death, under certain conditions. They’ll do it for you, Stephens.”

  “Let me have a talk with their leaders and scouts,” Red Stephens said.

  The grim brown faces assembled before him, eyes and teeth gleaming with hero-worship. These were the wielders of power, Stephens knew. They were all he had to depend upon, now. His repeated calls for Longworth had brought no answers.

  “Sit down with us, men,” Stephens began. The proud chieftains obeyed, joining the circle with Moberly and himself.

  “You want to keep your island. We want to help you keep it.” These words, Stephens saw, made the right impression. One of the chiefs, anticipating the cost of the trouble that was closing in, blurted his pledge.

  “We will die to keep our lands and our villages.”

  “You are right.” Red Stephens rose and straightened tall above the circle of brown men. He gestured toward the velvety purple of distant jungle hills. “Somewhere out there little parties of the enemy are already waiting. Our air scouts can’t see them, for they are hiding, to take us by surprise.”

  As Red spoke these words, he shook a hard fist into the air. At the same time he unobtrusively brought his spectacles up to his eyes,

  “Men. Have no fear. For I, Red Stephens, will not lead you into danger. I know exactly where the enemy is hiding.”

  His eyes passed carefully over the quadrupled faces. One set of faces caught him, held him by their fascinating revelation. They were the dark faces of Roortog, a native scout.

  In a crisp, hard challenge, Stephens followed through with, “Believe me, I know. But none of you know!”

  From the faces that this shout evoked, Red Stephens was sure. None of these men did know where the enemy was hiding—none except Roortog.

  But Roortog’s second face was a sure bet. His third and fourth faces were only a trifle worried over Stephens’ words. But his second face was aglow with the evil secrets of his inside knowledge.

  “We’ll move forward at on
ce,” said Red Stephens. “Whenever we come near to the enemy I’ll warn you.”

  CHAPTER X

  “There comes Roortog again,” the colonel said in a low voice.

  The two white men were hiking along side by side at the head of the long column. It was past noon On this second day of marching, and the high spirited warriors were hopeful that they would reach their destination before nightfall. The deep blue of the wide ocean eluded them by only a few miles of mountains.

  “Roortog has another suggestion,” said Red.

  “I’m amazed at how many of these trails he knows,” the colonel commented, “in spite of all their taboos on this north slope.”

  “These scouts get around,” Red noted.

  He and the colonel stopped for a moment of conference with Roortog and the two stout warriors who walked on either side of him.

  “What is it this time, Roortog?” Red asked, donning his spectacles.

  “The ways divide again,” said Roortog. “This one is much shorter and easier.”

  Red thanked him courteously. “But we’ll take the hard trail this time.”

  The procession moved on.

  “I don’t understand you,” the colonel said, when the two of them were well beyond the hearing of their followers. “You never follow Roortog’s suggestions. And yet you have placed two bodyguards over him to make sure no danger befalls him. One would suppose you consider him valuable.”

  “I do,” said Red Stephens, marching ahead confidently. “Beautiful scenery along the way, Colonel. I always enjoy a good mountain hike, don’t you?”

  Red felt the colonel give him another of those exasperated looks, as if to say, “A fool shall lead them.”

  It was midafternoon when the first gunfire broke out.

  The planes had continually radioed the danger of encounters with enemy snipers. Flying low over the mountain-tops they had kept up their search for Japs or Jap-natives. But they had failed to spot any nests of trouble.

  Now, several volleys of rifle fire sounded from across the valley.

  “That’s too far away to be meant for us,” the colonel snapped. “What’s more, we’re marching under cover.”

  “We’ll keep right on marching,” said Red. “We can check our numbers on the march.”

  Within a few minutes one of the chiefs sent word to the head of the line that a few of his warriors had broken off an hour earlier. They were a small self-reliant band of twenty men and they had taken a notion to follow the stream to avoid the longer trail. The chief had let them go.

  “You all know the orders,” the colonel retorted. “Those twenty left us at their own risk. If they ran into trouble it’s their fault.”

  “Then we won’t go down to rescue them?” the chiefs inquired.

  The colonel looked at Red, who, in turn, looked at Roortog, then shook his head.

  “Certainly not,” the colonel snapped. “We’ll hike straight on.”

  Two survivors of that band of twenty came pounding up the mountainside an hour later. Their companions had been picked off without warning. The cluster of enemy snipers—perhaps not more than twelve or fifteen of them—had quickly given up their chase to scurry on over the hills.

  “There’ll be dozens of nests of them,” the colonel said gravely. “Before we make our goal they’ll be leaking in on us from all sides.”

  Red said nothing. Bitterly he sensed the colonel’s unspoken suspicions—that he had nothing to say.

  “I suppose,” the colonel said, fastening his eyes on Red, “that the master of the jungle will see us through.”

  “Have you any doubts?”

  The colonel didn’t reply, and he didn’t need to, for Red saw his four revealing faces through the spectacles. One pair of eyes expected a nest of machine guns from every clump of bushes. Another pair exhibited distress at every remark Red made, no longer believing him to be the real Stephens.

  And yet it was plain the colonel, for all his doubts, was amazed at Red’s good luck in avoiding the danger zones. It happened twice again, before that last most dangerous hour of marching.

  Each time a few warriors took their own chances with death in order to follow an easier, more favorable trail, they ran into gunfire.

  “By thunder, I’m catching on,” the colonel confided to Red. “You’re right. Roortog is valuable. Any direction he tells you to go is wrong.”

  “He’s a Jap barometer,” Red whispered.

  “Um-m.” The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “So he’s had a hand in nesting them.”

  “Evidently.”

  “By gum, we’d better watch him. It’s all well enough for you to outguess him on trails, but he knows this jungle. We don’t.”

  The implication was plain. Red felt chills sliding around his throat. The colonel meant to do his own guiding from now on. And he would deal with Roortog as he pleased. Red saw him pat the handle of his revolver.

  The colonel said. “If Roortog can figure out any way to signal them that we’re giving them the slip, they’ll shift over and meet us. Say, does Roortog know you suspect him?”

  “We’ll call him up. You can judge for yourself,” said Red.

  There was good reason for another conference with the evil-eyed native scout at that particular time. The party had reached a point where one of three directions must be chosen for the last leg of the march.

  Should it be the deep blue valley to the left, or the heavily forested stream on the right? Or should they fight their way over the wide, rugged mountain straight ahead?

  “Straight ahead would be the hardest climb,” said the colonel. His eyes were scrutinizing the impenetrable face of Roortog. “But it is probably the safest, because it’s least accessible.”

  “What do you say, Roortog?” Red asked.

  The native scout, who had been so free with his suggestions, was quick and confident in his reply.

  “We should take one of the valley paths.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Roortog said carefully, “the enemy knows we will expect trouble this close to the coast. The enemy knows we will take the hard path over the mountains, thinking to miss them. So it is on the mountain path that they will wait to kill us. Let us take a low path.”

  Red nodded. “Now I have heard opinions from all of you. Your advice may be good; it may be bad. Now I must choose . . . Roortog has urged that we take a lower trail.”

  Through his spectacles he saw that the colonel was shaking all of his secret heads in a vigorous negative. And through his spectacles he also saw the hidden faces of Roortog.

  “This time we’ll follow Roortog’s advice,” Red said. “We’ll pick an easy trail—a valley—”

  Red broke off. Which valley? That was the question the traitor’s face hadn’t answered. But the answer would be there. Already Red was certain that one valley was safe and the other was death. But which?

  Before Red could speak, one of the chiefs gave a rebellious bark.

  “An easy trail—a valley—into a death trap!”

  Other leaders began to clamor. Take Roortog’s advice? Not they! Roortog had proved himself wrong every time. His words would have led them to enemy nests.

  The sullen growl of chiefs and scouts became a wave of superstitious rage.

  Everyone began talking at once. To both Red and the colonel it was a shock and a revelation. All this sullen rebellion had been gathering in silence. Every wrong admonition from Roortog had rooted in these superstitious minds.

  The spectacles proved that it was a wave of near violence. But, fortunately or otherwise, it was slow to focus directly upon Roortog himself. The chiefs and scouts fell to arguing with each other, demanding to know which tribe Roortog served. Some warriors summoned the two big bodyguards whom Red had placed on either side of the evil-eyed scout, to know why he should have their protection.

  In the confusion Roortog saw his chance. He broke and ran.

  Red saw a desperate light in his four pairs of eyes as he glanc
ed back. Then he bounded over a gulley and out of sight.

  Red pocketed the spectacles and sprang into action. He leaped down over the dip and came up running. The scout was yards ahead of him, ducking, dodging, chasing pell-mell for the thickest patch of woods on the slope.

  Light flicked over Red’s face like sunshine through a picket fence. He raced with every ounce of speed he could muster. Ahead of him the scout sprawled over a root, rolled down the sharp grade, and crashed into a tree.

  Red’s feet thudded like an engine. In another moment he would be on the dirty traitor, pounding the daylights out of him—

  He pounced. He caught his victim by the ankle—almost. His hand snapped off. Roortog was up again, thrashing over the thickets like a deer.

  But the steepening mountainside brought the chase to a hard, panting stop. There was Roortog, glaring back like a trapped tiger, creeping along an almost impassable slope. Loose rocks slipped under his feet.

  For a few yards Red tried to follow.

  “Come on, Red Stephens,” Roortog called back in a scared, angry taunt. “Get me if you can.”

  “You can go to the devil,” Red flung back at him. He paused, breathing aloud. He could hear the voices of the chiefs and their restless troops from somewhere up on the mountainside. The colonel was shouting at them, restoring order. The few scouts who had started to join the chase for Roortog had been called back.

  That was all to the good. And yet Red knew instinctively that the air was charged with dynamite. Those superstitious natives were on the brink of a panic of fear. Already some of their vagrant members had met death.

  Red thought of the good angel as she would gloat to hear that the venture on G had come to a sorry end. He thought of that poker-faced demon, Jalbeau, and those shifting, whirling eyes of his secret face. The angel and Jalbeau would pretend to regret this island’s tragedy, of course; they and their ring of saboteurs would go on with their bold schemes, flaunting their reputations for patriotism in order to divert attention from their treachery.