The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Boys! Boys! I want twenty boys!”

  At once forty or more youths came running up from the ranks of the spectators. Joe saw them begin to form a trap of horns, the same circular spear-trap that had gathered around the runaway girl by the cliff.

  “Run, Joe!” Donna cried. “It’s the ring of death. Run for your life!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Joe leaped to catch the whirligig.

  He jerked a horn out of the harness that now dangled over his chest. He used it like a knife. The cords that bound Uncle Keller popped from the strokes of Joe’s slashing arm. Poor Uncle Keller fell to the ground—not dead but groggy from pain and loss of blood.

  Joe dropped to his feet and gathered the helpless, bleeding friend into his arms. Above the tumult he beard Donna’s weird, terrified cry.

  “Run, Joe! Run!”

  Joe dodged ahead of the circle that was trying to close around him. Two young men raced across to block his escape. With Uncle Keller in his arms, he whirled at one of them, and Uncle Keller’s long legs swung out like a baseball bat to knock the fellow flat. With one hand Joe grabbed the next assailant by the horns, jerked him forward, dodging his headlong stagger.

  Ten minutes later the two “hornless demons” were out of hearing of the Festival, slogging along through a marsh near the river.

  “Still alive, Uncle?”

  “I need a smoke,” said Uncle Keller weakly. “And I could use a couple gallons of horse liniment . . . Let me do my own runnin’ now, Joe. I’m too heavy for you to carry. Besides, you’d better git on ahead. They were plenty powerful mad at you when you broke away. I heard everything.”

  “I’ll carry you,” said Joe. He knew Uncle Keller was in no shape to walk, and might be laid up for days. “It’s easier to throw them off the trail with one set of tracks than two, anyway. It’s an old trick I learned when I was a Boy Scout.”

  “The way you socked that one guy with an apple did me good.”

  “I used to be the pitcher for the South Side Wildcats.”

  “And those last three kids that tried to run in front of you—you hollered like thunder at ‘em and they beat it! By crackies, that did me good!”

  “I used to be the tenor in the quartet,” Joe laughed.

  When darkness came over the apple forest they made camp on a grassy knoll somewhere many miles down the river. The low steady roar of the Silver Falls was barely audible. Close around them were the ceaseless sounds of falling apples.

  Uncle Keller, bandaged and patched and somewhat restored, murmured that these were peaceful sounds to sleep by, and he doubted whether he would wake up for forty-eight hours. Privately, Joe was worried for fear the old man might never wake up. It would be a tough pull, to live after the ordeal he had gone through.

  But Uncle Jim Keller was tough. After many hours of sleep, he took nourishment and grew talkative and began to complain over losing his pipe. Joe decided he was on the mend.

  They were too near one of the river villages to make a permanent camp here. When a searching party came too near, Uncle Keller awakened Joe out of a nap and they broke up camp in a hurry.

  “Let’s make some more tracks, Joe.”

  Another day, another camp.

  There was nothing to do but eat and sleep and keep out of sight. Uncle Keller was coming back, slowly. He slept seven or eight hours out of every ten, which was all to the good.

  But be complained about his troubled dreams. “I keep dreamin’ about those boys that circled that girl with their horns, and finally got her when she fell. Sometimes I dream it’s me instead of the girl. And sometimes it’s you, Joe. And there I am, whirlin’ on the whirligig, an’ everything’s dizzy and blurry, an’ I keep faintin’.”

  “What are we going to do, Uncle?”

  “Die in exile, I reckon. We’ve got no way back to the Earth. An’ you’ve cooked your goose with Donna and all her people—for life.”

  “Don’t rub it in,” said Joe.

  Another day, another camp, and another dream.

  “You know what I been dreamin’ lately?” said Uncle Keller. “You was married to her, living back in Bellrap, U.S.A. You had three half grown kids, with seven horns apiece, and when the mayor came for dinner he mistook one of ‘em for a hat rack—”

  “Cut it out.”

  “An’ when the minister’s big fat wife came and greeted you folks and started to hug your wife, the way she hugs everyone, her double chin got hooked on Donna’s shoulder an’ she let out an awful holler—”

  “Stop!”

  Another day, and still another camp. They were moving deeper and deeper into the uncharted forest of big blue apples. With them went the strange feeling that someone was following them. That was Joe’s dream—that they were always about to be overtaken.

  “What are we going to do, Uncle?”

  “Stop and live out our days, I reckon.

  I know where there’s a space ship, Joe. It’s hid in a hillside—”

  “Uncle Keller, you wouldn’t!

  “I never said nothin’.” Uncle Keller munched innocently at a shiny blue apple.

  “After all the damage I’ve done to Donna,” Joe mumbled, “I’d be the worst heel in the world if I ever—”

  “Quit kickin’ yourself in the face. It gives me the back-ache,” Uncle Keller growled.

  “Besides, that space ship wasn’t exactly hers. It belonged to the Venus scientist she was always talking about. I’ll bet a hundred dollars he has stolen her away from Axloff, by now, in spite of the choosing ceremony. Axloff was too easy-going. But that Venus scientist was the sort of guy who would steal whatever he wanted. There’s something phony about that guy.”

  “You think so?”

  “By now, he and Donna are probably honeymooning around the rings of Saturn.”

  Uncle Keller tossed the apple aside, and turned, with difficulty, to rest his lame hips on softer grass.

  “You know something, Joe? I can’t figure out why you think a perty girl like Donna would want to marry a guy with white hair and long white whiskers.”

  “Who’s got white hair and long white whiskers?”

  “The Venus scientist.”

  “Huh? Who says so?”

  “That’s what Donna always told my wife an’ me when she was stayin’ with us back at Bellrap.”

  “White hair! Whiskers! Are you nuts, or am I? . . . Ye gods, then I’ve never seen the Venus scientists”

  “Of course you haven’t.”

  “Then who the devil was that blackhaired guy I stole the horns from?”

  “How do I know who you steal from?”

  “Something was screwy, Joe realized. He began to pace back and forth. His anger and confusion mounted. “When I went back and found that black-haired guy, I apologized to him—apologized, mind you—because I’d figured out that he was Donna’s scientist boy-friend.”

  “And he admitted it?”

  “Not only that. He sprung this plan for dehorning the natives as a scientific experiment. He told me it was all my idea and I should go ahead and promote it.”

  “Hmph.”

  Joe was blazing with anger. “Is that all you can say? Hmph?”

  “Sonny boy, it looks to me like you’ve walked into somethin’.”

  CHAPTER XII

  Joe stopped pacing and stared at Uncle Keller, studied him from head to foot, wondering how soon the poor fellow would be well enough to move under his own power. He couldn’t be left here in the forest alone. But Joe was breathing hard with ire and lust for revenge. Did he dare go back and settle a score or two—or die in the attempt?

  A rustling sound from a nearby thicket caused him and Uncle Keller to turn.

  A Martian was approaching them—a stately horned man with a yellow workman’s jacket and puffy pantaloons. In one hand he carried an orange-colored apple, in the other, what appeared to be a small loaf of bread. Joe recognized him at once. But he courteously introduced himself as he advanced.

&nbs
p; “I am Ruffledeen, the well known chef of Apple Forest. I have seen you before. Do you remember me?”

  “We remember,” said Joe. “What do you want?”

  “Would you care to try my latest cake?”

  He offered the loaf to Joe, who stood with arms folded. A suspicious offer, to say the least. What sort of man offers you a cake with one hand while he holds a poison apple with the other?

  “I’m not very hungry,” said Joe, “thanking you just the same . . . No, Uncle Keller is not very hungry either.”

  “I just et,” said Uncle Keller.

  “My cakes are very famous,” said Ruffledeen, not in the least disturbed by this cool reception. He came a little closer. His wavy purple whiskers, shining in the thin shafts of sunlight, again reminded Joe of a bunch of purple grapes. He continued, “This is my latest creation.”

  He fairly forced the loaf into Joe’s hands. Joe scowled. It was incredible that this man should have wandered into these depths of the forest by accident.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I often walk through the trees,” said Ruffledeen. “I enjoy the peace of the trees. Sometimes I meet people, and if I think they are in trouble I tell them.”

  “That’s a laugh,” Joe snorted. “I’m already up to my neck in trouble. Anything you might tell me couldn’t make any difference.”

  “That is bad,” said Ruffledeen. “Sometimes people are so deep in trouble that they will eat the orange-colored apple.”

  “I’ve thought of that all by myself, pal,” said Joe, with a hint of desperation that made Uncle Keller wince.

  “But I did not offer you the orange apple. I have given you the cake. Will you give your sick friend a part of it?”

  Joe broke the loaf and handed half of it down to Uncle Keller, who lay resting on an elbow. There was an awkward pause. Uncle Keller sniffed at the cake. It smelled delicious. But he stalled, his glances shifting from Joe to Ruffledeen to the poison apple.

  Joe acted as if be were going to take a bite, then he too stalled, taking refuge in a bit of friendly conversation.

  “You must be tired, Ruffledeen. Do you want to sit down with us? . . . No? . . . Er—you mentioned a warning of new trouble? Go ahead, give us the worst.”

  “Very well,” said Ruffledeen. From his expressionless face he might have been discussing the balmy weather instead of an approaching storm. “Some unknown criminals are entering the villages every night to seize some unsuspecting native.”

  “Kidnappers, huh?”

  “Horn removers.”

  “Horn removers!”

  “When I left the last village, thirty-five persons had already been dehorned. You two foreigners are being sought for these nightly crimes. New search parties are being organized. You will be killed on sight.”

  “We—? Ye gods! That black-haired, lying scoundrel—that double-crossing hornless four-flusher!” Joe was on fire with the passion of revenge. He tightened his fists, and the cake twisted into a doughy mass in his hands. It contained something hard, but at the moment Joe was too enraged to notice such trifles as cakes. “By George and by Joe, there’ll be murder!”

  “Careful! My cake!” Ruffledeen warned. “I have baked it especially—”

  “The cake!” Joe snorted. Then recovering his manners, “Yes, the cake. Thank you so much . . . Does Donna Londeen believe I am guilty of this dehorning stunt?”

  “She knows,” said Ruffledeen, “that you proposed the idea to the leaders. That was a mistake.”

  “Then she believes—”

  “I cannot say what she believes. I cannot say whether her uncle believes that she herself may be involved. I can only say that she wants to see you.”

  Ruffledeen began to walk away as slowly and mysteriously as he had come. He gave a definite warning, however, that he was not to be followed. He made them agree.

  Joe called after him. “You say she wants to see me? Wait! Tell her where to find me!”

  “It might cost her life if she tried,” Ruffledeen moved on, his back now turned to Joe.

  “Tell her I’ll come back and find her—very soon—as soon as Uncle Keller doesn’t need me. And if she isn’t already married, tell her not to marry that black-haired devil. Tell her to marry Axloff—”

  “Perhaps I will tell her where I last saw you,” said Ruffledeen, “if you like my cake.”

  “Of course we’ll like your cake,” Joe called. “We’ll eat every bit of it! Won’t we Uncle?”

  Ruffledeen looked back once again before he disappeared. Joe and Uncle Keller were eating their cake.

  “It’s a good cake, so far,” said Uncle Keller, smacking his lips. “Oh-oh, what’s this? I just bit into somethin’ hard.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Joe turned to Uncle Jim Keller. “I bit into something, too. That chef must make his cakes out of rocks . . . Well by George and by Joe, look at this.” His worried look changed to a boyish grin. “It’s the bowl of your corncob pipe.”

  “Eh? By crackies,” Uncle Keller’s bright black eyes shone under beetle brows. “I’ve just bit into a pipe stem. Now how do ya reckon—?”

  “Ruffledeen the chef must have rescued it for you at the Festival.”

  “He’s gone to a lot of trouble, followin’ us around the forest. But anyhow we’re saved.”

  Joe scowled. “Saved? How do you figure that? There’s a bounty on our scalps.”

  “Don’t worry, son. I’ve got my pipe. I’ll have a good smoke an’ dream our way outa trouble.”

  “You and your pipe dreams! I’ll rely on footwork, in this strange country. Come on, we’re moving.”

  “Hey ain’t we gonna wait an’ see if Donna comes?” Uncle Keller whined.

  “With any kind of luck, we’ll meet her half way. Come on, Uncle. We’re breaking camp.”

  “Now be reasonable. I just got my pipe filled.”

  But Joe gathered up Uncle Keller in his arms and strode off in the direction that Ruffledeen had gone. Uncle Keller thought he felt well enough to walk. But Joe preferred to lose no time. The light gravity of Mars gave him strength and speed to spare. And the cake he had just eaten was full of quick energy.

  “Son,” said Uncle Keller, “you’re headin’ back to the river, square into danger.”

  “Scared?” said Joe.

  “We’ll run into a thousand Martians with ten or twelve horns apiece and git ourselves horn-jabbed into human pin-cushions.”

  “Lost your nerve?”

  “No, but I’m proud,” said Uncle Keller. “If Donna Londeen carts my dead body back to the Earth, I want the Bellrap citizens to know it’s me, not some fancy Martian mince-meat. Where we goin’ ?”

  “To overtake Ruffledeen. He must be a friend or he wouldn’t have brought your pipe. I’ll make him lead us to Donna.”

  “Stop!” Uncle Keller demanded. “These trees are drippin’ blood. Look at my hand.”

  Joe stopped. On the back of Uncle Keller’s hand was a drop of blood. It had fallen from somewhere overhead. Joe looked up into the trees. He squinted.

  “Whatcha lookin’ at son?” Uncle Keller squirmed to his feet, and stood, a bit wobbly, looking up through the branches loaded with apples.

  In this strange land, where big blue apples were constantly ripening and falling with an almost rhythmic thump . . . thump . . . thump . . . upon the ground or upon the horns of unconcerned natives, and where one lone orange-colored poison apple could be seen near the top of every tree, and where the natives had purple hair and six fingered hands and several horns on their heads and shoulders, it might seem that visitors from Earth should not be surprised at any other odd sights. But here Joe and Uncle Keller stood, near a thicket along the bank of a small stream, staring up into a tall blue-apple tree.

  Forty feet above them a Martian hung between two branches. Blood was dripping from his head. He had just been dehorned. He hung motionless, and to all intents and purposes appeared dead.

  CHAPTER XIV

 
A small pool of blood on the ground revealed that the man had occupied his high perch only a few minutes.

  “How in blazes did he git up there?” Uncle Keller mumbled.

  Joe frowned. For a moment he stood, his fists planted on his hips. He studied the tree from trunk to topmost branch, calculating the difficulties that any dehorning party would have climbing up. A fight out on those high branches would have been perilous. But there were no signs that anyone had fallen.

  “Do you reckon they chased him up,” Uncle Keller asked, “an’ gave him the business when they got him out on the limb? . . . I don’t git it.”

  “He’s alive!” Joe muttered. “I saw him move.” He shouted, “Hi up there!”

  “Hsssh!” Uncle Keller flung his hands up for silence. He whispered, “Great guns, Joe, you’ll have us murdered in no time. How far away d’ya, reckon his dehorners are? Right over the bank, most likely. That job’s fresh from the ax.”

  “Too neat for an ax,” said Joe calmly. Then he called again, in his best Martian accent. “Hold on, up there. I’ll come up and help you.”

  The Martian, a typical villager in a soiled red workman’s suit, turned his bloody head and tried to look down. He uttered the one word, “Come!”

  The tree would have been a tough climb on the Earth. But Joe’s lithe muscles, aided by the comparative weightlessness that he enjoyed on Mars, made him equal to the feat. All the way up, his thoughts whirled with conjecture. How? How had this job been accomplished? Had a machine hurled this victim? Surely no team of men could have thrown him to this height.

  Nine horns had been removed. There were three bloodless stumps on each shoulder, three on the crest of the head. But the saw had evidently slipped, gouging his head and the flesh of his shoulders in several places. The fellow’s locks of purple hair were matted with blood and sweat. His face was tight with pain.

  “Do not let me fall,” he begged. He was too badly injured to try to help himself. He looked down forty feet to the pool of blood on the ground, and acted as if be would fall from dizziness. It was hard for Joe, astride the branch, to administer first aid. But he stuck to his job. Then, with the aid of his rope he lowered the man from one branch to another, and at last to the ground.