He was led to the other side of the veranda. It overlooked a vast plain. Shining in the late afternoon sun, a black lake of asphalt glistened. The big native motioned to a crude chair. Bush Wyman sat down.
With the smoothness of a white swan, the golden-tressed girl appeared from another doorway. She walked to where Wyman sat on the edge of his chair. Her azure eyes surveyed him from under long lashes. Every detail of her lissome body was now within his reach. Her breasts rose and fell with a fascinating movement. Her rounded shoulders were a perfection of curves that swept gracefully to her perfect waist.
She sat down in a reclining chair opposite Wyman and clapped her palms together. A white Indian girl came out onto the veranda. She too, was nude save for a wispy girdle. The native girl’s breasts were pear-shaped and drooped slightly. Her dark eyes bored at Wyman. A hibiscus blossom was entwined in her coal-like hair. Her crimson lips parted in a smile.
The yellow-haired girl spoke to the giant native alongside of Wyman. The big native turned, walked across the veranda and disappeared through a doorway. The white Indian girl picked up a palm leaf, waved it over the golden head of the reclining girl. The blonde riveted her blue eyes on her captive.
She spoke, “So, Mr. Wyman, you didn’t heed my message!”
Wyman straightened, jumped to his feet. “I don’t just get this set-up!” he flared. “But if the Shale Oil Company think they can scare me away by having you shoot arrows and kill my burros, it won’t work!”
The girl leaned forward. Her eyes widened. “Is that what you think? You’re wrong. That’s more of your civilized greed!”
“Then what’s it all about? Who are you? Why are you here?”
“You might not understand what it is about. My name is Marjorie Packard and I’m here because I like it!”
“You know nothing about the Shale Oil Company?”
“I know they are prospecting another field,” she answered. “They won’t come through our village.”
Wyman’s tone softened. “Would you mind untying my hands?”
The girl who had called herself Marjorie Packard spoke to the dark-haired girl. “Release him, Tatina.”
The white Indian maid went behind Wyman. Her fingers picked at the strands that bound his wrists. Her warm body was close to him. He felt soft skin brush his back, heard her deep labored breathing. At last, she freed his arms from the bonds.
The golden-haired girl spoke to Tatina in the Indian tongue. The maid arched her brows and left. In a few minutes she returned with a pitcher and clay cups, filled them, handed one to Wyman. He tasted the drink, smiled, and downed it. Marjorie set her cup on a low table.
“You may go now, Tatina,” the blonde girl said sharply. The dark-haired maid left.
Alone with Marjorie Packard, Bush Wyman drew his chair by her side. He feasted his eyes on her beauty. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“I was born here,” Marjorie answered. “My father was an anthropologist. My mother died first. Before my father passed away, he made me promise to go to the States to be educated. I did.”
“And why did you come back here?”
Marjorie’s eyes flared. “Because I was sick of your civilization, your greed, deceit! Here, we are free, peaceful. I learned of you and your oil company. You are coming here to destroy our homes, our farms; put up hideous derricks; drive us away!”
“But, my dear, I’m afraid you can’t stop progress by shooting arrows at us.”
Marjorie didn’t reply. She looked helplessly at Wyman. He saw her eyes mist. He dragged his chair closer, put his hand on her shoulder. The contact with her bare flesh made tingles shoot through his veins. He felt the girl’s body tremble, saw the color steal over her face. He leaned over her, put his other arm around her glowing body.
The golden-tressed girl gasped. Slowly, her arms crept outward, circled his body. Wyman’s head lowered. Impulsively, feverishly, his mouth clamped over her moist ruby lips, lingered, hard.
Abruptly, she twisted from Bush Wyman, sprang to her feet. Her white body was flushed pink. Her eyes flared. “You shan’t do that to me!” she flared. “I won’t permit it! Once, in the States, I trusted a man like you. That’s why I returned here.” She clapped her hands. The giant Indian and the native girl. Tatina, came back to the veranda.
Marjorie snapped an order. The Indian chief thrust the tip of his javelin close to Wyman’s chest. “Put your hands back of you!” he commanded. Wyman obeyed. Tatina went behind Wyman. She securely rebound his wrists.
The golden-haired girl gave another order. The big Indian prodded Wyman toward the stairway. Wyman looked back at Marjorie. She stood like a statue, motionless, expressionless.
Wyman descended the stairs to the garden below, the Indian chief at his heels. Another tribesman joined them. Wyman was marched down the road, toward the shore of the asphalt lake. They came to a log shack set among the trees. The chief pulled open the portal, thrust Wyman inside. He pointed to a cot. Wyman sat down. While the giant Indian held his spear against Wyman’s side, the other native bound his ankles. The chief and his tribesman left. Wyman heard the sliding of a timber on the outside of the door.
He put his eyes to a chink between the logs of the wall beside his cot. The fiery edge of the tropical sun was dropping below the horizon of the asphalt lake. He looked at the meager furnishings of the room. He strained at his fetters. The ligaments of his muscles stood out like thongs but the fiber bonds held.
Blackness gradually enshrouded his prison. Not a sound broke the stillness. The air was dank. Sweat streamed into his eyes from his futile efforts to free himself. A listless sensation stole over him. He shook his body, tried to free it from a lethargic feeling that was overpowering him. A gray haze was swimming over his eyes in the darkness. He felt drowsy. His shoulders slumped. Vainly he tried to hold open his fluttering eyelids. But they were heavy, like velvet curtains, and closed.
* * * *
Bush Wyman awoke from the sound of a grating noise at the door of the hut. Someone was outside. He raised himself to the edge of the cot. The timber that served as a huge bolt was being slid back. The barrier creaked as it was pulled outward. Wyman made out a shadowy figure that slipped noiselessly into the room.
Bare feet padded across the floor. In the darkness, Wyman felt a bare arm encircle his neck. Hot breath fanned his face. Moist lips brushed his ear. “It’s Tatina!” a voice breathed.
Wyman shook his head to clear it. He yawned, breathed deeply. “I couldn’t keep awake,” he said.
“That drink you had put you to sleep,” Tatina replied.
Wyman’s muscles tensed. “Drugged, eh?” he snapped. “Why did you come here?”
“To warn you. I overheard Atabapo, our chief who captured you. He has talked to our men. They are going to kill you!”
“For what?”
“Because you bring the oil company. Atabapo told them you would take the lake of death; asphalt, oil, our golden queen calls it. The lake is sacred to our people. They are buried there. It saves their souls!”
“Does your golden queen know they plan to kill me?”
“No,” the native girl answered.
“Thanks for warning me, Tatina. But I’m afraid it’s too late. I can hardly move!”
The girl sat down on the cot. She crushed herself close to Wyman. He felt her hair caress his face, her warm cheek against his own, her burning lips on his ear. “Am I not desirable, American?” her voice was deep, husky.
A thought flashed through Bush Wyman’s mind. “I could tell better if I wasn’t tied up,” he told her.
Wantonly, the girl dropped across his lap. Her warm flesh sent thrills through his frame. For a moment she lay still, breathed audibly through her mouth. She sat up, perched herself boldly on his lap. Her arms wound around his neck. She whispered, “If I untie you, American—will you love me?�
��
Bush Wyman’s pulse leaped. “Try me and see,” he answered.
Tatina slipped off his knees, crept over the cot to his back. She tugged at the cords that bound his wrists, bit them with her teeth. The strands loosened. Wyman jerked his arms free. The native girl slid to the floor, picked at his ankle bonds until the knots were untied. Wyman stood up, took a few steps around the room. He returned to the cot, sat down close to the girl.
She moved closer to him. He put an arm around her bare shoulders, drew her tightly. His other hand strayed over her throat, down her shoulders to her waist. She gasped. Tatina pressed her hands over his, crushed his fingers. Her body tensed.
She threw herself backward, dug her nails into the back of his neck, pulled him down. Her hot breath was like desert air on his face. He lowered his head to her wet lips. Tatina sighed in the depths of her throat, held him viselike. Her mouth bruised against his.
Suddenly, Bush Wyman straightened from his relaxed position. He sprang to his feet. Tatina jumped. Long flickering bands of yellow light danced through the partly-opened door.
Tatina grasped Wyman’s hand. “It’s the men—the ones Atabapo talked to. They’re coming for you, American!” She pulled Wyman to the door.
The native girl led him to a path at the rear of the shack. She stopped, pointed. “Follow around the black lake, American!”
Wyman ran through the darkness, kept close to the asphalt bed. He could hear the distant shouts of the natives back in the shack from which he had just fled. He came to the back of the two-story house where he had talked with the golden-haired girl, Marjorie Packard. There was a light in one of the upper rooms. And as he looked up, his blood went icy. A scream had knifed the night air.
Wyman vaulted the low fence to the garden. He went cautiously up the outside stairway. Treading softly, he advanced along the veranda, came to a door that was screened with a fiber hanging. He peered inside. His flesh crept.
Marjorie Packard was clamped tightly in the arms of the muscular chief, Atabapo. She was beating her fists against his chest. She bent backward, tried in vain to escape. She twisted her half-clothed body, tore from his grasp, backed against the wall. “Don’t touch me, Atabapo!” she screamed. “I’ll have you killed for this!”
The Indian chief scowled. “My people no longer obey you. Already I talk to them. They kill the American tonight!”
Bush Wyman saw Marjorie’s eyes widen with fright. Her mouth opened. She went chalk white. “No harm must come to this white man!” she flung.
Atabapo advanced toward the cringing Marjorie. “There is still time to save him.” He smiled wryly.
‘Then do it—hurry!” the yellow-haired girl spoke breathlessly.
The Indian chief’s eyes glistened. “Atabapo promise if—” he hesitated, stared avidly at the girl’s milky body.
“If what, Atabapo?”
“If the golden queen be my wife—like I read in your books!”
Marjorie’s body went rigid. She looked blankly at the chief who demanded his reward—like the men of civilization. Her figure was as motionless as a statue. Her lips parted slowly, “All right, Atabapo, I promise. But first you must free Wyman, see him safely back with his people.”
Atabapo shook his head, “I want you first, now!” He went to her, put his sinewy arm around her slender waist His right hand drew her irresistibly. Marjorie’s fingernails dug into her palms. She didn’t move. Her face was colorless, resigned. Atabapo’s head lowered toward hers.
And at that moment Bush Wyman, hurtled his body through the doorway. His iron fingers tore into the native’s naked shoulders, pulled him backward with mighty force. Atabapo crashed to the floor, murderous rage flaming from his obsidian eyes as he recognized his attacker.
The native chief got to his feet with the swiftness of a plunging hare. His hand went to his loin cloth. A knife flashed. Marjorie screamed. Wyman hunched his broad shoulders. The Indian leaped like a tiger, swung his blade in a vicious trajectory. Wyman sidestepped, thrust out his foot. Atabapo tripped, sprawled on the floor.
Wyman dived after him. The Indian twisted, got his shoulders squared and raised his blade as Wyman landed. The sharp edge of the knife sliced along Bush Wyman’s arm, cut the cloth of his shirt. Blood soaked the flannel. Wyman ground his jaws together, clamped down with both hands, pinioned the wrist of the native.
Atabapo rolled his powerful body, carried Wyman over with him. Bush Wyman clung tenaciously to his adversary. Wyman’s head cracked against the partition as they struck the wall. His grip loosened on the Indian. Atabapo jerked free, got to his knees, struck down with his dagger. The steel went through Wyman’s sleeve, jammed into the floorboards.
Wyman ripped loose from the knife, came to his feet. His fist shot out with a mighty swing. It fetched up with crushing power on the native’s mouth.
Crimson drooled from the man’s shattered teeth. He staggered backward, tripped, went down, lay inert.
Sandaled feet pattered on the stairway outside. They raced along the veranda, came to the doorway of the room. Wyman’s eyes riveted on a half dozen Indians who stopped at the threshold. Red fury possessed Wyman. He crouched, doubled his huge fists as the forward native drew a murderous-looking knife.
As Bush Wyman, nerves edged, waited his chance, a gap opened between two of the Indians at the door. A figure glided between them, darted into the room, to Wyman. It was Tatina, the native girl who had released him in the cabin. She poked a revolver in Bush Wyman’s hand, spoke breathlessly, “Your gun. American! I found it—loaded it for you!”
As Tatina spoke, there was a whirring sound. A shaft with a burning eye—a flaming arrow—such as had killed the burro, sailed into the room through a window. Bush Wyman reached out for the Indian girl. He was too late. The deadly shaft plunged into Tatina’s naked breast. She sobbed, sank. Scarlet rivulets trickled over her white skin.
Wyman backed up against the wall. His revolver spat. The forward native crumpled, dropped. Yellow fire from Wyman’s weapon belched at another Indian. The man stopped as if petrified, fell. Wyman fired toward the door. A slug tore into a native’s arm. Terror suddenly seized the Indians on the veranda. They turned, fled down the stairway. Silence fell in the room.
Wyman ran to the dying Tatina. She looked up. Her weary eyes fluttered. Her lips moved slowly, wistfully. “You—you’re nice, American,” she murmured.
Bush Wyman leveled his gun at the prostrate chief. Marjorie ran to Wyman. Her eyes were wet. “Don’t kill Atabapo!” she pleaded. “Let him live—rule his people. I have taught them too much of my civilization. I—I don’t belong here.”
Bush Wyman put his arm around the golden-haired girl. “You mean you will go back with me?”
Marjorie looked steadily into his eyes. Her face flushed. Her breasts throbbed provocatively. She nodded. “If you’ll take me, Bush Wyman.”
Wyman clasped her quivering body, pressed her tightly, felt her warm against him. Her firm breasts mashed on his chest. “I want you forever, my darling,” he said.
Marjorie reached up with her rounded arms, drew down his head. She turned up her moist lips. Bush Wyman’s mouth closed over hers…
VALLEY OF BLOOD, by Victor Rousseau
Originally published under the pseudonym “Lew Merrill” in Spicy-Adventure Stories, September 1936.
Mynheer Van Stent, the governor of that province of Celebes, had told Jim Darrell that no plane could cross the Salibaya Range, and certainly not the one in which he had arrived. It was not so much a matter of height as of a certain rarefaction of the atmosphere, due to the alternations of blazing heat by day and freezing cold by night.
“It has been tried twice,” van Stent explained, and told of crashes on the mountain tops. At least, neither of the planes nor their occupants had been seen again.
“But we got the pilots’ heads,” he went on grimly. “Neat
ly prepared in the approved Celebes fashion. We found them lying in the compound early one morning. Maybe The Hague will send us out an up-to-date plane, with a couple of machine-guns. Then we’ll wipe out that nest of freebooters.”
And he went on to tell of a secret egress from the mountain valley, by which, periodically, the Dyaks raided their neighbors, killing men, women, and children, apparently for the sheer love of slaughter.
“But this legend of a white woman who rules them, the only woman among them—do you believe that?” asked Jim.
“That’s true enough,” said Mynheer the governor, with a glance at the old Dr. Beyers, who was seated with them on the verandah of the Government House.
“And that she was—?”
“An Englishwoman, Lady—well, we won’t mention names,” said van Stent. “Fifteen or sixteen years ago her husband, a retiring British official, was taking her and their little daughter home after his service in Borneo expired. Their vessel was shipwrecked off this coast. The husband and child were massacred, the woman made a prisoner. That was the last that was heard of her, until she reappeared as the leader of this tribe.”
“Persuaded the tribe to put all their women to death, and invented a new religion?” asked Jim, quoting a story he had heard at Macassar? “And—and—God, how many of these tribesmen are there?”
“Perhaps two hundred, perhaps three,” said the governor.
“And she—one woman—?”
“Mine friend,” grunted old Dr. Beyers. “I have seen her.”
Jim saw a look of protest on the governor’s face, but Beyers went on.
“It will do no harm to tell now. Fifteen years ago she came to me—well, captured me, with an escort of savages with spears, when I was traveling in the interior. A madwoman! I should have thought her a Dyak, save for her bright golden hair. The sun had bleached it to spun gold. Ach, Gott, she was beautiful then! She forced me to do something to her. A slight operation. I begged her to come back with me. But she forced me to do what she wanted, under pain of death.
The Spicy-Adventure Page 25
