E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “No,” she cried, sinking beside him. “I don’t love him. Not that way. But he was good to me and my people. I’ll go to court—I’ll tell the judges—”

  He jerked back to the couch. “They’ll kill you. Pedrarias has the court in his pocket.”

  She clung to him, sobbing, but the luxurious form that had turned him against his friend did not for the moment move Garabito. He snarled, “He struck me with a whip—I could have forgiven him if he had killed me with a sword.”

  Then, looking out the window, he saw the black scaffold, and his head sank between his hands. Tula’s heavy eyes brightened. She stroked his hair, whispered in his ear of the old friendship and perils he had shared with Balboa. And as he wavered, her voice became throaty and caressing as her soft hands.

  The sun was dropping toward the jungle that fringed the town. Tula plied him with kisses, with all the allure that not even bruises had robbed of its splendor. She turned her remorse into compelling passion as she pleaded, “Andres, for the sake of my love, save him. Tonight, we can overpower the jailor. I don’t care for him as I do you. I can’t. But he is a born captain, and he had to marry her to win more fame. So I forgive him. Good God, Andres. So can you. You’re not afraid—”

  He fiercely embraced her, stroked back the streaming hair that half veiled her thinly clad body, read the glow in her dark eyes. He was sure at last that Tula had sought him for his own sake.

  “Love me, Andres,” she pleaded. “Never stop loving me. I’m an outcast. My father has disowned me. Your people will spit at you for betraying Balboa. Save him—tonight—or he dies at sunrise. Your honor dies with him—and I die—being guilty with you. But my father loves Balboa, and for his sake, he would receive us. You and me, Andres—my people are your only hope. Balboa’s friends will find you, surely slay you. Save him, or you die. And I perish alone in the jungle—cursed by my father—”

  “Dios!” he groaned, fingers sinking into her arms till she winced. He crushed her to him, and remorse more than desire fused them together for a while. “Holy saints! You have tricked me out of my vengeance. Tonight I’ll get him loose!”

  “We two, Andres!” She made a sound neither a laugh nor a sob. Then she clung to him, and their wrenched emotions blended in tears and inarticulate cries. And with fear and vengeance driven from that shadowy room, Tula and Garabito found each other anew; their kisses mocked the scaffold. For the first time, there, was no shadow between them as they found each other’s arms…

  But as the sun dipped toward the jungle’s crest, the blare of trumpets and the solemn roll of drums shook the room. A priest was chanting in sonorous Latin, cadenced to the metallic tread of marching soldiers.

  Five men, bare headed and manacled, ascended the scaffold. Balboa, chin high and nose jutting like a crag, stalked boldly ahead, and his four friends in file behind him; solemn but unafraid, since they had often faced death when he was not saluted by the rumble of drums and the heart wrenching cry of trumpets.

  A masked man tried the edge of his axe. Halberds gleamed from the ground; musketeers stood by with matches smoking. Pedrarias was in the center of a picked company; even in Acla, he feared revolt.

  “Sanctisima madre!” groaned Garabito. He was unarmed, except for his dagger—caught off guard by Pedrarias’ haste to behead his victims. Tula’s sigh seemed to deflate her frozen breasts and draw her color until her lips were leaden.

  She sagged, and he did not catch her. She lay there, sprawled in her hair and the little scarlet skirt from which her lovely legs grotesquely reached.

  The headsman was kneeling, begging the personal pardon of his victims. Balboa’s deep voice did not tremble as he absolved the masked man. Long red shafts lanced through the jungle, and shadows marched across the square.

  “Let me go first, Don Vasco,” said stout Arguello.

  “Your captain leads,” retorted the man who had claimed the South Sea for Spain. “Vayan con dios, compañeros!”

  The roll of drums drowned the prayer that the descending axe cut short. A frozen silence in thickening light. Another trumpet blast, and that awful rumble…another—

  Then Garabito saw what lay at his feet. For this sprawled flesh he had sold his friend. Yet he was sick, and she was all that he had. He knelt beside her, mumbling what prayers he remembered.

  And he died with a prayer on his lips. Tula, rousing herself, snatched his dagger and thrust it home.

  She laughed shrilly, and as the axe for the fifth time fell, men in the square wondered whose mirth could profane that moment when the captains licked their lips and groped for the next command.

  Then feet tramped, trumpets blared, and no one heard the cries of the king’s daughter whose bare body gleamed as a last sun ray kissed it. With red laughter and red dagger, she was running to the jungle that hates all lonely creatures, and destroys them.

  * * * *

  But before the sun rose, Tula knew that it was only her sensuous beauty, and the safety of Antigua del Darien that kept her in his tent.

  They reached the South Sea whose waters kissed the coasts of the Indies.

  UNFIT FOR COMMAND

  Originally appeared in Short Stories, September 25th 1941.

  CHAPTER 1

  For a long time now, the commanding officer of the Philippine Scout post at Bacolod had been wondering whether to decorate Dan Riley, or to try him for conduct unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman. And what Sergeant Piomonte brought from Headquarters was not a Congressional Medal.

  Riley said wearily, “Come in, Sergeant!” But Piomonte remained at the threshold, straight and trim in his well starched chino blouse. He wore side arms, so he kept his hat on, and he tried to avoid Lieutenant Riley’s eye. Like every scout on the post, he knew what had happened, and he was sorry; but his wrinkled brown face showed none of this as he began, “Sir. The commanding officer sends compliments to—”

  Riley raised a hairy paw, and grinned sourly. “To hell with the compliments. Sit down; it’ll take me from now on to read the charges.”

  But Piomonte would not sit in the lieutenant’s presence; not on this solemn occasion. No one was certain whether the C.O. was trying Riley under the 96th Article of War, or under the 95th, which last made dismissal mandatory.

  Riley was only a few inches taller than the sergeant, but he carried fifty pounds more weight, most of it in his square shoulders and strong arms; and none of it, according to Major Crann, in his head. The cavalry trumpet hanging on the wall of the dark paneled room, just over the iron bed with its mosquito netting, Major Crann said, explained that distribution. Trumpeters, he insisted, blow their brains out, not with a service .45 as they should, but by mere performance of their duty; and Dan Riley had served an enlistment as a trumpeter in the old Seventh Cavalry.

  Riley opened the official envelope and took out the original and carbon of the charges. “Long as a Chinese dream,” he grumbled, and for a moment poked around among the ash trays, dobe cigarettes, unanswered letters, and canned gadgets of carabao horn and marine ivory which littered his table. Then he found a pen, made a tentative splash on the floor, and put his John-Henry on the dotted line. “Here you are, Sergeant. And have a cigar!”

  He reached for the box of Excellentes. Piomonte approved of a gallant fellow who cared so little about orders that he wouldn’t bother to read the one which probably meant his dismissal from the service, but the sergeant was also practical. “Sir. If I breeng back thees paper with signature, the Commanding Officer knows you ’ave not the time to make proper reading.”

  “Oh, all right, light up and wait.” Riley began to read, “Charge 1: Violation of the 95th Article of War.”

  His long jaw tightened just a little, his mouth hardened, his sandy brows bristled for a second. Major Crann was out for a hide. The only way to stay in the service was to beat the charges, and these could not be beaten. He read on:

/>   “Specification 1: In that First Lieutenant Dan P. Riley, Philippine Scouts, did, at Bacolod, Mindanao, P. L, in the tienda of Ah Chin, on or about January 11, 1914, engage in a brawl with one Balabac Charlie, a civilian. And in that the said First Lieutenant Dan P. Riley did throw a coal oil lamp at the said Balabac Charlie, the lamp exploding and burning to the ground the tienda of said Ah Chin and two other houses of nipa construction in the said village of Bacolod.”

  Riley shook his head. Captain J. C. M. Wilson had witnessed most of the show. So had Spud Marley, a copra trader who hated soldiers on general principles. And then there were enough natives to testify.

  “That the said First Lieutenant Dan P. Riley, Philippine Scouts, did then, at grave risk to his own life, rescue the said Balabac Charlie who was then unconscious from a blow from the fist of said First Lieutenant Dan P. Riley.”

  This last was not included because Major Crann intended to give the crackbrained officer a chance to plead heroism; as the C.O. saw it, Riley was just lucky not to be facing manslaughter charges, and the court was being so reminded.

  During his hasty signing without reading, Riley had noted the closing paragraphs of the impressive document. They did suggest a very slim chance; that next to the last specification, plus one Datu Andug, a hill Moro who knew too many gun runners. Major Crann’s saddle-colored face turned a deep purple whenever Andug was mentioned; he knew the datu was accumulating guns, but war department orders kept him from taking the initiative in cleaning out that nest of trouble makers. This was in the tradition: never lock the barn until it’s too late.

  Riley began to brighten. He rose, thrust his feet into his straw chinelas, and walked over to the cavalry trumpet. It reminded him of court-martials he had dodged as an enlisted man. Resourcefulness had gotten him out of more than one tangle, though this time, it would take some getting. He turned back to the table, and still thinking of the last paragraph, he said to Piomonte, “Sergeant, I want you to watch for Crazy Tom. The minute he comes out of the Lanao country, let me know, day or night. Do you understand?”

  “Si, mi teniente.”

  Riley resumed his reading: “Specification 2: In that First Lieutenant Dan P. Riley, Philippine Scouts, did then bring said Balabac Charley, a civilian, and another civilian known as Crazy Tom, to the military reservation of Parang, and did, while standing on the trail in rear of bachelor quarters of said military reservation, at or about three o’clock, A.M., blow a cavalry trumpet, the same being equipment not authorized for issue to officers, a tune commonly known as ZAMBOANGA, after having encouraged the said Balabac Charley and the said Crazy Tom, both civilians, to accompany him vocally, the words of said song being indecent, improper, and unbecoming an officer and gentleman: This all to the scandal of the military service.”

  “Specification 3: In that First Lieutenant Dan P. Riley, Philippine Scouts, was drunk and disorderly in the presence of enlisted men.”

  This last savored a bit of anticlimax, Riley thought. It had all started when he learned that Balabac Charley, just returned from Borneo, had once soldiered in the 31st Infantry, a regiment which, somewhere or other, Riley couldn’t remember, had been quartered near the 7th Cavalry. So they began drinking; and presently they began to feel sorry for Crazy Tom, with whom no one would drink. They asked Crazy Tom to join them, and the list of charges neatly summed up the results.

  Just incidentally, Crazy Tom had, years previous, soldiered in a cavalry outfit. Now he was a sunshiner, definitely whacky from nipa gin. Whites despised him, natives feared him. He had four wives; one in Bacolod Village, and three in the Moro country, this trio being kept in shacks a day’s march apart. The hostile tribesmen feared to harm him, since madmen, whose wits had been checked with Allah, were under divine protection. All this gave Riley a glimmer of hope.

  That glimmer became a blaze as brisk as Ah Chin’s tienda. An inner voice began to sound like a cavalry trumpet. Riley paced up and down in his slip-slapping chinelas. Then he noticed the sergeant, who still stood there, face no longer blank; he looked confused, uncertain. Riley asked, “What’s the matter, Piomonte?”

  The sergeant gulped, stood up straighter than was natural even for a Scout at attention. “Sir. Regulation say, enlisted man cannot say de officer right or wrong. Cannot make de reclama.”

  Riley tried hard not to chuckle at Piomonte’s scruples in the presence of one who had always considered regulations something to be evaded.

  “Go ahead, go ahead, what is it?”

  “The men—of thees company—the other company too—express the regret. They will sign the petition, begging the commandante to—”

  “He’d throw you all in the mill, do you hear? What good’d that do me? Now get out, and watch for Crazy Tom.”

  “Si, mi teniente.”

  Riley’s big idea was too good to keep. He wanted to see the commanding officer at once, but being under arrest in quarters, he could not call on Major Crann. However, an hour later, he was crossing the parade.

  He wore his white uniform, but without belt or saber. Wiry little scouts, lounging on the veranda of barracks, snapped to attention, the senior member of each group saluting. Riley’s hand rose a little, then dropped, and he said, “Cut it out! I’m under arrest, don’t you understand?”

  “Si, señor. We know that.”

  Being a damn fool did have its rough moments. Riley gulped and blinked, thinking of how tough it would be, no longer commanding a platoon of these little brown apes.

  It was mid-afternoon, but he stopped at the mess, just for a minute. When he came out, he tried to pat his blouse into shape, though not with any success. One pocket bulged. Then, instead of going directly to quarters, he detoured to Major Crann’s office. The orderly who paced back and forth on the veranda, at each end making a precise about face, started to do a rifle salute, and then remembered not to.

  Riley knocked smartly at the screened door. A professionally brusque voice answered, “Come in!” Then, “Lieutenant, what in hell’s hinges and Tophet are you doing here? Who gave you permission to leave your quarters? Do you or do you not understand the meaning of arrest?”

  “Sir, after reading those charges, I had a splendid idea.”

  The major’s long sharp face became two shades darker. He pushed his chair back, and stood there, straight and scowling. Then he sighed gustily and the double row of campaign ribbons on the breast of his white blouse settled back a little. “Riley, I do not wish to add charges of breaking arrest, though after all, I do not see that would make much difference.”

  “That’s just about correct, sir,” Riley brightly agreed. “Now, my idea is—”

  “I am not interested in your damned ideas! You’ve had too many of them, and fraternizing with sunshiners, with that polygamous madman whose very existence is an affront to white prestige in Mindanao, that is the limit. Let me explain again, Riley. I am patient because, with your long record as a bugler—”

  “Begging the major’s pardon, but I was a cavalry trumpeter, sir. Buglers are—”

  Crann’s teeth grated audibly. “I know, Riley. Bugler is not the designation used in the mounted service. But you’ve blown your brains out through your mouth just the same. Now, the meaning of arrest in quarters is—damnation, am I to believe that you don’t know you are permitted to leave only for sick call or meals?”

  Riley dug into the pocket of his blouse. “That’s what I was about to explain, sir.” He displayed a sandwich two inches thick, made of issue salmon. “I went to get a meal.”

  Crann sat down. He said, with a mixture of regret and anticipation, “You won’t be disgracing the service much longer. In many ways, you have the makings of a first-class officer, but damn it, sir, your breaches of discipline make you utterly unfit to command men in battle. Unfit to command men, you understand?” He raised a hand. “I know, you have good showmanship, the men follow you. But in the end, you’ll sa
crifice a company. Now, what is that idea?”

  “I’ve found a way to learn where Datu Andug gets those guns and cartridges, sir.”

  “What?” Crann’s face changed. He leaned across his desk. “Don’t try to trade with me, you’ll win no leniency. But I’d like to know how.”

  “Crazy Tom goes all through the hills. He’s loco, and Andug’s men won’t touch him. Now, he wears a mask to hide a big scar, the poor devil thinks his wives won’t love him if they see that kampilan slash. I’m his size, suppose you throw him in the hoosegow, while I go into the hills. The Moros will take me for him. The mask, sir, don’t you see?”

  Crann smiled bitterly. “Impersonating a madman. Appropriate, in a way. Now get out of here, and stay in your quarters. The idea is too wild for words. Even though I am preferring charges, I don’t want you staked out on an ant hill. That is all, Lieutenant!”

  CHAPTER II

  It was around five-fifteen when Sergeant Piomonte, fairly crackling in the chino khaki freshly starched and ironed for retreat, came to Riley’s quarters. He burst in without knocking, and began to gesture: “Look, mi teniente! She is coming from the mountain.”

  “She? Who?”

  “Crazy Tom, el loco, the accursed one, señor! I watch for heem.”

  Riley followed the little sergeant to the veranda. The sun was sinking toward the Celebes Sea; the red and magenta and the green splashes were mirrored in the water, and seemed to reach all the way to Borneo, but Riley had no eye for the beauties of nature.

  Crazy Tom, stumbling down the mountain trail toward Bacolod Village, looked finer than any sunset.

  Riley’s shoulders swayed just a bit, in unconscious imitation of the madman’s slouching gait. “By God, I can walk like that, it’s easy!”

  And he could also have carried the little deer that scarcely hampered the sunshiner. Glance fixed only a short distance in front of him, his face hidden by the red bandanna he wore, in the manner of a western road agent, Crazy Tom seemed always on the verge of falling or tripping, but he never did.