and skin were one with the mucky mire of the I tried to say “Thanks. Red!”
swamp. But still its heart ebbed with deep Some mesmerism in those yellow, purple pulsing. A smashing blow, and that, dying eyes! Shaking with disgust, Red Roane too, died.
bent above that foul fen watcher, put down his
“It’s over!” Grimly I flung the bloody hand to pick up that stricken sin, over whose stave into the swaying grass.
eyes thin eye-membrane already lowered in
“Yes, Jerry,” whispered Red Roane,
death.
“it’s nearly over.”
Weird Tales
6
I could not believe it. Red Roane, the
“I am the daughter of the morning!
strong man, the shouter, the singer, the gay-
“I shouy. I dance. I laugh away.
hearted lover! Is death then, so much stronger
“Follow, lover! Hear my warnings
than life?
“I, the laugher, do not stay ...
“A woman, Jerry,” he whispered, “in
Havana—Dolores! She dances—”
Stamp! Stamp! Stamp! Her body
“For God’s sake, Red, wake up!”
rippled. She cast her eyes at me.
“Dances
at
the—”
Tain Dirk’s head was rising. His thin,
“Red!
Red Roane! I’m here, boy!”
dry, red lips opened wide. His golden eyes Out from the way, whence we had
burned with undying hate. Tat! tat! tat! his come, faintly I heard a cry. Who wept thus for fingers drummed.
the soul departing, sang paean For the dead?
“In a minute, Jerry,” whispered Bimi Was it wind over the stagnant grasses? Frail in Tal, not pausing from her dance. Her lovely the solitude, rose that wail again. The eyes looked downward, seeing Dirk. She whimper of new-born life! In the squatter’s screamed. The music silenced. She struck her hut the child had found its soul!
arm at him, not knowing what she did.
“Dolores!” whispered Red Roane.
Mad! the Man was mad! His jaw was
Beneath that brazen sky he whispered the opened wide. He bit her arm above the wrist.
name of love. “Dolores!”
Before the rush of frantic people had Past a hundred miles of swamp, past a fallen over us, I struck his venomous face.
hundred miles of sea, did Dolores, the dancer, With both fists, blow on blow. Blood came hear him calling her?
from his damned lips.
“Dolores!”
What madness had seized him I don’t
I hope she heard, for he was a good
know. Likely it was memory surging back lad, though wild.
through dead life—the venom of the rattler, With a throat strangling in sobs, I sang hate undying. But of that, who can say? A to Red Roane. His eyes were closed, yet he strange thing is memory.
heard me. Old campaign songs, songs of the Yet I knew for sure that to him, the march and the bivouac. Marchers’ tunes.
mad sculptor, born in that hut in the hot Then he whispered for a lullaby, and, savanna, had passed the soul of the dying last of all, for a drinking song.
rattlesnake.
Hands dragged me back from him. I
V.
shouted and tore. He quivered, wounded heavily. His nervous fingers faintly clattered BIMI TAL had danced up to us—Bimi Tal, on the table, drumming with dreadful music.
daughter of Red Roane and of Dolores, the Police came in.
dancer.
“Look!” I shouted to them. “Look at
She laughed and tossed her dark red
those marks of teeth on Bimi Tal’s wrist. Two hair. Her broad nostrils sucked in the hot night deep fangs. There’s the man who killed wind.
Ynecita, the dancer!”
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