“I’ve been a fool!” he raved. “I didn’t read far enough–and I should have shut the door–but by heaven, the key is mine and I’ll keep it in spite of man or devil.”
And with these strange words he turned and fled upstairs. A moment later his door slammed heavily and a servant, knocking timidly, brought forth only a blasphemous order to retire and a luridly worded threat to shoot any one who tried to obtain entrance into the room.
Had it not been so late I would have left the house, for I was certain that Tussmann was stark mad. As it was, I retired to the room a frightened servant showed me, but I did not go to bed. I opened the pages of the Black Book at the place where Tussmann had been reading.
This much was evident, unless the man was utterly insane: he had stumbled upon something unexpected in the Temple of the Toad. Something unnatural about the opening of the altar door had frightened his men, and in the subterraneous crypt Tussmann had found something that he had not thought to find. And I believed that he had been followed from Central America, and that the reason for his persecution was the jewel he called the Key.
Seeking some clue in Von Junzt’s volume, I read again of the Temple of the Toad, of the strange pre-Indian people who worshipped there, and of the huge, tittering, tentacled, hoofed monstrosity that they worshipped.
Tussmann had said that he had not read far enough when he had first seen the book. Puzzling over this cryptic phrase I came upon the line he had pored over–marked by his thumb nail. It seemed to me to be another of Von Junzt’s many ambiguities, for it merely stated that a temple’s god was the temple’s treasure. Then the dark implication of the hint struck me and cold sweat beaded my forehead.
The Key to the Treasure! And the temple’s treasure was the temple’s god! And sleeping Things might awaken on the opening of their prison door! I sprang up, unnerved by the intolerable suggestion, and at that moment something crashed in the stillness and the death-scream of a human being burst upon my ears.
In an instant I was out of the room, and as I dashed up the stairs I heard sounds that have made me doubt my sanity ever since. At Tussmann’s door I halted, essaying with shaking hand to turn the knob.
The door was locked, and as I hesitated I heard from within a hideous high-pitched tittering and then the disgusting squashy sound as if a great, jelly-like bulk was being forced through the window. The sound ceased and I could have sworn I heard a faint swish of gigantic wings. Then silence.
Gathering my shattered nerves, I broke down the door. A foul and overpowering stench billowed out like a yellow mist. Gasping in nausea I entered. The room was in ruins, but nothing was missing except that crimson toad-carved jewel Tussmann called the Key, and that was never found. A foul, unspeakable slime smeared the window-sill, and in the center of the room lay Tussmann, his head crushed and flattened; and on the red ruin of skull and face, the plain print of an enormous hoof.
The Dweller in Dark Valley
The nightwinds tossed the tangled trees, the stars were cold with scorn; Midnight lay over Dark Valley the hour I was born.
The mid-wife dozed beside the hearth, a hand the window tried–
She woke and stared and screamed and swooned at what she saw outside.
Her hair was white as a leper’s hand, she never spoke again;
But laughed and wove the wild flowers into an endless chain.
But when my childish tongue could speak, and my infant feet could stray, I found her dying in the hills at the haunted dusk of day.
And her darkening eyes at last were sane; she passed with a fearsome word:
“You who were born in Dark Valley, beware the Valley’s lord!”
As I came down through Dark Valley, the grim hills gulped the light; I heard the ponderous tramping of a monster in the night.
The great trees leaned together, the vines ensnared my feet,
I heard across the darkness my own heart’s thundering beat.
Damned be the dark ends of the earth where old horrors live again.
And monsters of lost ages lurk to eat the souls of men!
I climbed the ridge into the moon and trembling there I turned–
Down in the blasted shadows two eyes like hellfire burned.
Under the black malignant trees a shapeless Shadow fell–
I go no more to Dark Valley which is the Gate of Hell.
The Horror from the Mound
Steve Brill did not believe in ghosts or demons. Juan Lopez did. But neither the caution of the one nor the sturdy skepticism of the other was shield against the horror that fell upon them–the horror forgotten by men for more than three hundred years–a screaming fear monstrously resurrected from the black lost ages.
Yet as Steve Brill sat on his sagging stoop that last evening, his thoughts were as far from uncanny menaces as the thoughts of man can be. His ruminations were bitter but materialistic. He surveyed his farmland and he swore. Brill was tall, rangy and tough as boot-leather–true son of the iron-bodied pioneers who wrenched West Texas from the wilderness. He was browned by the sun and strong as a longhorn steer. His lean legs and the boots on them reflected his cowboy habits and instincts, and now he cursed himself that he had ever climbed off the hurricane deck of his crank-eyed mustang and turned to farming. He was no farmer, the young puncher admitted profanely.
Yet his failure had not all been his fault. Plentiful rain in the winter–rare enough in West Texas–had given promise of good crops. But as usual, things had happened. A late blizzard had destroyed all the budding fruit. The grain which had looked so promising was ripped to shreds and battered into the ground by terrific hailstorms just as it was turning yellow. A period of intense dryness, followed by another hailstorm, finished the corn.
Then the cotton, which had somehow struggled through, fell before a swarm of grasshoppers which stripped Brill’s field almost over night. So Brill sat and swore that he would not renew his lease–he gave fervent thanks that he did not own the land on which he had wasted his sweat, and that there were still broad rolling ranges to the west where a strong young man could make his living riding and roping.
Now as Brill sat glumly, he was aware of the approaching form of his nearest neighbor, Juan Lopez, a taciturn old Mexican who lived in a hut just out of sight over the hill across the creek and grubbed for a living. At present he was clearing a strip of land on an adjoining farm, and in returning to his hut he crossed a corner of Brill’s pasture.
Brill idly watched him climb through the barbed wire fence and trudge along the path he had worn in the short dry grass. He had been working at his present job for over a month now, chopping down tough gnarly mesquite trees and digging up their incredibly long roots, and Brill knew that he always followed the same path home. And watching, Brill noted him swerving far aside, seemingly to avoid a low rounded hillock which jutted above the level of the pasture. Lopez went far around this knoll and Brill remembered that the old Mexican always circled it at a distance. And another thing came into Brill’s idle mind–Lopez always increased his gait when he was passing the knoll, and he always managed to get by it before sundown–yet Mexican laborers generally worked from the first light of dawn to the last glint of twilight, especially at these grubbing jobs, when they were paid by the acre and not by the day. Brill’s curiosity was aroused.
He rose, and sauntering down the slight slope on the crown of which his shack sat, hailed the plodding Mexican.
“Hey, Lopez, wait a minute.”
Lopez halted, looked about, and remained motionless but unenthusiastic as the white man approached.
“Lopez,” said Brill lazily, “it ain’t none of my business, but I just wanted to ask you–how come you always go so far around that old Indian mound?”
“No sabe,” grunted Lopez shortly.
“You’re a liar,” responded Brill genially. “You savvy all right; you speak English as good as me. What’s the matter–you think that mound’s ha’nted or somethin’?”
Brill could speak
Spanish himself, and read it, too, but like most Anglo-Saxons he much preferred to speak his own language.
Lopez shrugged his shoulders.
“It is not a good place, no bueno? ” he muttered, avoiding Brill’s eye. “Let hidden things rest.”
“I reckon you’re scared of ghosts,” Brill bantered. “Shucks, if that is an Indian mound, them Indians been dead so long their ghosts ’ud be wore plumb out by now.”
Brill knew that the illiterate Mexicans looked with superstitious aversion on the mounds that are found here and there through the Southwest–relics of a past and forgotten age, containing the moldering bones of chiefs and warriors of a lost race.
“Best not to disturb what is hidden in the earth,” grunted Lopez.
“Bosh,” said Brill. “Me and some boys busted into one of them mounds over in the Palo Pinto country and dug up pieces of a skeleton with some beads and flint arrowheads and the like. I kept some of the teeth a long time till I lost ’em, and I ain’t never been ha’nted.”
“Indians?” snorted Lopez unexpectedly. “Who spoke of Indians? There have been more than Indians in this country. In the old times strange things happened here. I have heard the tales of my people, handed down from generation to generation. And my people were here long before yours, Señor Brill.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” admitted Steve. “First white men in this country was Spaniards, of course.
Coronado passed along not very far from here, I hear tell, and Hernando de Estrada’s expedition came through here–away back yonder–I dunno how long ago.”
“In 1545,” said Lopez. “They pitched camp yonder where your corral now stands.”
Brill turned to glance at his rail-fenced corral, inhabited now by his saddle pony, a pair of work horses and a scrawny cow.
“How come you know so much about it?” he asked curiously.
“One of my ancestors marched with de Estrada,” answered Lopez. “A soldier, Porfirio Lopez; he told his son of that expedition, and he told his son, and so down the family line to me, who have no son to whom I can tell the tale.”
“I didn’t know you were so well connected,” said Brill. “Maybe you know somethin’ about the gold de Estrada was supposed to hid around here somewhere.”
“There was no gold,” growled Lopez. “De Estrada’s soldiers bore only their arms, and they fought their way through hostile country–many left their bones along the trail. Later–many years later–a mule train from Santa Fe was attacked not many miles from here by Comanches and they hid their gold and escaped; so the legends got mixed up. But even their gold is not there now, because Gringo buffalo-hunters found it and dug it up.”
Brill nodded abstractedly, hardly heeding. Of all the continent of North America there is no section so haunted by tales of lost or hidden treasure as is the Southwest. Uncounted wealth passed back and forth over the hills and plains of Texas and New Mexico in the old days when Spain owned the gold and silver mines of the New World and controlled the rich fur trade of the West, and echoes of that wealth linger on in tales of golden caches. Some such vagrant dream, born of failure and pressing poverty, rose in Brill’s mind.
Aloud he spoke: “Well, anyway, I got nothin’ else to do, and I believe I’ll dig into that old mound and see what I can find.”
The effect of that simple statement on Lopez was nothing short of shocking. He recoiled and his swarthy brown face went ashy; his black eyes flared and he threw up his arms in a gesture of intense expostulation.
“Dios, no! ” he cried. “Don’t do that, Señor Brill! There is a curse–my grandfather told me–”
“Told you what?” asked Brill, as Lopez halted suddenly.
Lopez lapsed into sullen silence.
“I can not speak,” he muttered. “I am sworn to silence. Only to an eldest son could I open my heart. But believe me when I say better had you cut your throat than to break into that accursed mound.”
“Well,” said Brill, impatient of Mexican superstitions, “if it’s so bad, why don’t you gimme a logical reason for not bustin’ into it?”
“I can not speak!” cried the Mexican desperately. “I know–but I swore to silence on the Holy Crucifix, just as every man of my family has sworn. It is a thing so dark, it is to risk damnation even to speak of it!
Were I to tell you, I would blast the soul from your body. But I have sworn–and I have no son, so my lips are sealed for ever.”
“Aw well,” said Brill sarcastically, “why don’t you write it out?”
Lopez started, stared, and to Steve’s surprize, caught at the suggestion.
“I will! Dios be thanked the good priest taught me to write when I was a child. My oath said nothing of writing. I only swore not to speak. I will write out the whole thing for you, if you will swear not to speak of it afterward, and to destroy the paper as soon as you have read it.”
“Sure,” said Brill, to humor him, and the old Mexican seemed much relieved.
“Bueno! I will go at once and write. Tomorrow as I go to work I will bring you the writing and you will understand why no one must open that accursed mound!”
And Lopez hurried along his homeward path, his stooped shoulders swaying with the effort of his unwonted haste. Steve grinned after him, shrugged his shoulders and turned back toward his own shack.
Then he halted, gazing back at the low rounded mound with its grass-grown sides. It must be an Indian tomb, he decided, what of its symmetry and its similarity to other Indian mounds he had seen. He scowled as he tried to figure out the seeming connection between the mysterious knoll and the martial ancestor of Juan Lopez.
Brill gazed after the receding figure of the old Mexican. A shallow valley, cut by a half-dry creek, bordered with trees and underbrush, lay between Brill’s pasture and the low sloping hill beyond which lay Lopez’s shack. Among the trees along the creek bank the old Mexican was disappearing. And Brill came to a sudden decision.
Hurrying up the slight slope, he took a pick and a shovel from the tool shed built on to the back of his shack. The sun had not yet set and Brill believed he could open the mound deep enough to determine its nature by lantern-light. Steve, like most of his breed, lived mostly by impulse, and his present urge was to tear into that mysterious hillock and find what, if anything, was concealed therein. The thought of treasure came again to his mind, piqued by the evasive attitude of Lopez.
What if, after all, that grassy heap of brown earth hid riches–virgin ore from forgotten mines, or the minted coinage of old Spain? Was it not possible that the musketeers of de Estrada had themselves reared that pile above a treasure they could not bear away, molding it in the likeness of an Indian mound to befool seekers? Did old Lopez know that? It would not be strange if, knowing of treasure there, the old Mexican refrained from disturbing it. Ridden with grisly superstitious fears, he might well live out a life of barren toil rather than risk the wrath of lurking ghosts or devils–for the Mexicans say that hidden gold is always accursed, and surely there was supposed to be some especial doom resting on this mound.
Well, Brill meditated, Latin-Indian devils had no terrors for the Anglo-Saxon, tormented by the demons of drouth and storm and crop failure.
Steve set to work with the savage energy characteristic of his breed. The task was no light one; the soil, baked by the fierce sun, was iron-hard, and mixed with rocks and pebbles. Brill sweated profusely and grunted with his efforts, but the fire of the treasure hunter was on him. He shook the sweat out of his eyes and drove in the pick with mighty strokes that ripped and crumbled the close-packed dirt.
The sun went down, and in the long dreamy summer twilight he worked on, oblivious to time or space.
He began to be convinced that the mound was a genuine Indian tomb, as he found traces of charcoal in the soil. The ancient people which reared these sepulchers had kept fire burning upon them for days, at some point in the building. All the mounds Steve had ever opened had contained a solid stratum of charcoal a short distance below
the surface. But the charcoal traces he found now were scattered about through the soil.
His idea of a Spanish-built treasure trove faded, but he persisted. Who knows? Perhaps that strange folk men now call Mound-Builders had treasure of their own which they laid away with the dead.
Then Steve yelped in exultation as his pick rang on a bit of metal. He snatched it up and held it close to his eyes, straining in the waning light. It was caked and corroded with rust, worn almost paper thin, but he knew it for what it was–a spur rowel, unmistakably Spanish with its long cruel points. And he halted, completely bewildered. No Spaniard ever reared this mound, with its undeniable marks of aboriginal workmanship. Yet how came that relic of Spanish caballeros hidden deep in the packed soil?
Brill shook his head and set to work again. He knew that in the center of the mound, if it were indeed an aboriginal tomb, he would find a narrow chamber built of heavy stones, containing the bones of the chief for which the mound had been reared and the victims sacrificed above it. And in the gathering darkness he felt his pick strike heavily against something granite-like and unyielding. Examination, by sense of feel as well as by sight, proved it to be a solid block of stone, roughly hewn. Doubtless it formed one of the ends of the death-chamber. Useless to try to shatter it. Brill chipped and pecked about it, scraping the dirt and pebbles away from the corners until he felt that wrenching it out would be but a matter of sinking the pick-point underneath and levering it out.
But now he was suddenly aware that darkness had come on. In the young moon objects were dim and shadowy. His mustang nickered in the corral whence came the comfortable crunch of tired beasts’ jaws on corn. A whippoorwill called eerily from the dark shadows of the narrow winding creek. Brill straightened reluctantly. Better get a lantern before continuing his explorations.
He felt in his pocket with some idea of wrenching out the stone and exploring the cavity with the aid of matches. Then he stiffened. Was it imagination that he heard a faint sinister rustling, which seemed to come from behind the blocking stone? Snakes! Doubtless they had holes somewhere about the base of the mound and there might be a dozen big diamond-backed rattlers coiled up in that cave-like interior waiting for him to put his hand among them. He shivered slightly at the thought and backed away out of the excavation he had made.
The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard Page 24
