The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “You have eaten my salt. I cannot protect you against Ripperda. What wish you to do?”

  Dr. Shaw had gathered his wits by this time, and his brain was working shrewdly.

  “My friend Spence was not mentioned in that message? Then let us hope that he is alive. I shall remain here. Ripperda will not harm us, for I have a nominal errand to the sherif—regardless of his name! And I must await news of my friend, also. We shall remain here.”

  The Moor nodded. His eyes were narrowed in calculation, anxiety sat beneath the lids.

  “May Allah further your undertakings! I have my own head to look after.”

  Dr. Shaw took the hint, rose, and departed to tell Mistress Betty his news.

  In another portion of this town was a house, outwardly inconspicuous, inwardly a mass of sumptuous furnishings. Many slaves were here, white and black; the harem was large.

  In a small room sat the master of this house, upon a thick rug before a writing table such as scribes use. A tiny shaded lamp burned before him; his face was invisible, only his sinewy arms showing in the circle of light. He clapped his hands, and a slave entered.

  “When a man comes showing the signet of the sherif, bring him to me at once.”

  Alone again, the man went on writing. As his right arm moved in the light, one could see a design upon the skin—the figure of a dolphin, tattooed there. This man was Gholam Mahmoud.

  Suddenly, almost without a sound, the door opened. A man clad in a dark burnoose came into the room; he threw back the hood and disclosed the flaming beard of Barbarroja. A weary oath broke from him as he sank down on the rug.

  “Diantre! Get me some wine. I had to shout for half an hour before they would open the city gates—even the signet of the sherif barely satisfied the dogs. Allah upon them! I rode my horse to death and walked the last two miles of the way here.”

  A slave brought wine. Barbarroja twice drained a goblet, then sighed contentedly.

  “You should have stayed with me.” He grinned at his host. “You lost money, caballero! That is what comes of running after women. As it is, the reward is mine.”

  “Reward!” Gholam Mahmoud started. “Then—Mulai Ali—”

  “Is dead.”

  Barbarroja twirled his mustache grandly.

  “I do not say it was well done, nor am I proud of the matter, however, Allah knows I need the money! His Spahis fought off my men, and while they fought, I gained place in the rear—and put a bullet in his back.”

  “Where is his head, then?” sneered the other.

  “Bah! The event will prove my words. Any news of the man Spence?”

  “None. He is lost. The others readied here safely. Why are you interested in him?”

  “Because,” said Barbarroja coolly, “I have just learned that Spence carries the leather box behind his saddle. That makes you jump, eh? Well, it is the truth. Ripperda’s casket!”

  Gholam Mahmoud snapped out an oath. Then: “Have you any scheme, any way to find him?”

  Barbarroja chuckled.

  “Spence cannot go far alone, and dare not go back to Tlemcen; so he must come west. In that event, he will be picked up somewhere in this district. We have only to wait until he is brought to the governor. When he comes we take the casket—and you negotiate its sale to your master Ripperda. You comprehend? It is simple.”

  Gholam Mahmoud smiled his twisted smile.

  “And suppose Pasha Ripperda comes here?”

  “Let him come!” Barbarroja shrugged, but his eye was startled. “Do you expect him?”

  “Perhaps tonight; certainly tomorrow.”

  “Dios! Very well.”

  The Spaniard made a grandiloquent gesture.

  “I am a generous man. I shall allow you to share the credit of killing Mulai Ali; tell the pasha we did it together. The sherif’s reward goes to me, however. This will rehabilitate your credit with Ripperda, who will then gladly pay a big sum for the casket. You understand?”

  Gholam Mahmoud regarded him sneeringly for a moment. “I understand that in all this there is no mention of the woman whom I desire. If we are to work together, let the conditions be fulfilled—or I shall obtain the woman for myself! If you want the money, turn over the woman to me, and do it quickly. She is here now.”

  Barbarroja pawed at his great beard, and considered this demand.

  “Agreed,” he said, and yawned. “You shall have her tomorrow. Give me a place to sleep, caballero, and Allah will bring all things to pass!”

  Gholam Mahmoud himself conducted his guest to a room on the upper floor.

  Once alone, Barbarroja did not sleep, though he was worn and haggard. Instead he sat for a while staring into the lantern, and plucking at his huge beard. He was sore put to it.

  “They will all be warned against me now, since that old goat of a governor knows me all too well,” he reflected. “And the governor will avenge the death of Mulai Ali on me, if he catches me. How, then, shall I get the woman for yonder lecherous viper? Get her I must!

  “If that devil of a Spence returns—ha! Old Shaw is the one to work upon, and I owe him a turn for the sorry trick he played me at the Cisterns. Shaw is the one—and it must be done speedily, before Ripperda comes, before that devil Spence turns up! Tomorrow, early.”

  He sat for a while longer, then blew out the lantern. Presently his chuckles died away into a droning snore.

  CHAPTER IX

  “Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.”

  An hour after sunrise, Dr. Shaw hastily sought the presence of the governor. “Sleep is a trusty adviser,” he said. “I have changed my mind overnight, and have decided to leave here at once, before Ripperda shall arrive.”

  “God knoweth all things.”

  The old Moor blinked. “Consider me at your command. What wish you?”

  “Nothing,” said Shaw. “I will take the two Spahis who brought me here and go on to Fez. I have obtained a guide. Give me a spare horse, food, and water-skins.”

  The old Moor blinked again. He smelled something amiss, since this was not the proper state for an envoy. But he was mightily glad to be rid of Shaw, who might interfere with his own artistic lies to Ripperda, and refused to inquire too close into Shaw’s purpose.

  Nor did he fail to note the inward agitation of Shaw. Putting one thing with another, he shrewdly guessed that this agitation was connected with the missing Spence. All his solicitude was for his own hoary head, however, so he sped his guests right courteously.

  Half an hour later Dr. Shaw and Mistress Betty, attended by the two Spahis, rode toward the western gate of the city. With Shaw, in front, was a rascally one-eyed Moor. He was not only the guide, but the cause of their precipitate departure.

  “You are certain you know the place?” said Dr. Shaw to the Moor.

  “Aye, infidel,” growled the guide. “It is the tomb of Osman, half a mile from the city gates—a deserted spot, since the tomb has fallen into ruin.”

  Shaw drew back beside the girl, who watched him with anxious eyes.

  “I think it is all right,” he said. “At least, it tallies with Spence’s note, and we must trust the rascal. Let me study that note again, mistress.”

  The girl handed him a paper, which he read over as he rode. It was a note in English, signed by Spence, telling Shaw to meet him outside the western gate at the tomb of Osman, and to make no delay. Spence stated that he was slightly wounded, had no horse, and dared not enter the city; that Mulai Ali was dead, and all their hopes gone. All this tallied only too well with what Shaw himself knew.

  As they neared the western gate, there came to them a distant sound of gunfire and a faint clamor of shouts. Shaw gave the girl a whimsical smile. This noise was the welcome to Ripperda, who was at that moment entering the city by the northern gate.

  The gate behind them, the party rode toward the orchards and groves beyond the city. The Spahis were ahead, the guide between them; Shaw and Mistress Betty followed with the lead horse. In this
order they entered the rich champaign and saw the city walls vanish.

  The timeliness of this departure, and the expected meeting with Spence, put Dr. Shaw into high good humor. His anxieties disappeared, and he discussed with the girl whether they should strike on for Fez or return to Algiers. In the midst of this cogitation the guide called back to inform him that the tomb of Osman lay ahead.

  This was the ruined tomb of some ancient marabout, as the domed building testified. A desolate garden surrounded the place, which was in ruinous disrepair. There was no sign of Spence to be seen, and Shaw strove to dissipate the uneasiness of his companion.

  “He may be sleeping somewhere near by,” he said, reassuringly. “At least, we can wait.”

  They drew near, and passed beneath the western wall of the old tomb, where there was shade from the morning sunlight. Shaw dismounted and gave his hand to the girl to help her from the saddle.

  At this instant the trap was sprung.

  The guide, with one lightning movement, plunged his long knife into the side of the nearest Spahi, then put spurs to his horse. The second Spahi whipped out his scimitar, and from the nearby trees came a ragged blast of muskets. Pierced by two bullets, the Spahi fell beside his dying comrade.

  Three men came running from the trees, joining the treacherous guide.

  So swiftly had all this taken place that both Shaw and the girl stood motionless, paralyzed by the rapid horror. Then, as the assassins ran forward, a cry broke from Shaw.

  “Barbarroja!”

  Red-beard it was, brandishing his sword, who led the other ruffians. He came to a halt and grinned widely at Shaw, while his men seized the horses and plundered the dead Spahis.

  “Señor, I greet you! Behold, am I not a pretty writer of notes? It is not Spence.”

  “Scoundrel!” cried the doctor in a strangled voice. “You have deceived us!”

  “Decoyed you into a pretty trap—exactly!” Barbarroja flourished his sword. “But there is no credit in decoying a weak partridge like you, little man.”

  One glance around showed Dr. Shaw that he was lost. He instantly became calm and cold.

  “What is the reason for this treachery?” he demanded, hand on sword.

  “It is twofold,” was the cool response. “The pretty señorita would be reason enough for most men; but honor comes first with me. I owe you a debt for what you did to me at the Cisterns, and I shall settle the debt.”

  Barbarroja advanced, glaring at Shaw. Behind the latter stood Mistress Betty, motionless, watching and listening in utter despair.

  “Oh, traitorous rascal!” groaned Shaw. “It is all your doing that—”

  “My doing, indeed!” Barbarroja strutted with huge gusto. “Poor little chicken of a man. Was not I, Lazaro de Polan, sent to kill Mulai Ali? Well, he is dead as yonder marabout! And you are in my power, and my friend Gholam Mahmoud will take the leather box when Spence shows up, as he must soon do!”

  He laughed at the despair of Shaw. It was a proud moment for Barbarroja, whose vanity was the greatest part of him. He stood there and laughed, while that great flaming beard of his curled and matted over his chest. Already Barbarroja was a little drunk with the prowess of his arm and his wits. His three ruffians watched him in proper awe.

  “Now to our debt, little man,” he went on. “You insulted me both in Christian and Moslem fashion. You kicked me, for which the ancestry of Lazaro de Polan demands recompense; and you tweaked my beard, for which the ancestry of Barbarroja demands vengeance. To what end have I, a great caballero, entered the portals of Islam, if I am not to enjoy the rights of that faith? So, as a caballero of Toledo, and a devout Moslem, I demand satisfaction!”

  Shaw uttered a hollow laugh.

  “You would murder me, you scurvy rogue?”

  “Not at all,” said Barbarroja grandly. “I, Lazaro de Polan, am no slaughterer of poor fools! In my capacity as a good Moslem, I should at once put steel into you; but in my capacity as a good caballero, I do not desire to sully my sword. Look at this sword, little man! Look at the spring of it! A true Toledo blade out of the sherif’s treasury!”

  He seized the long blade, bent it double, let it spring back again. Passion seized upon Shaw—the angry passion of one to whom all hope is lost.

  “Vile renegade!” he spat out bitterly. “If you have the courage to face me, do so! Dog that you are, I suppose you will have your bandits pistol me in the back!”

  A look of astonished fury swept into Barbarroja’s face. He stared at Shaw, then swung and faced his men. At an order from him, they retired. He turned again to Shaw.

  “For those words, I kill you!” He threw away his hat, bowed mockingly. “In my capacity as a caballero of Toledo, I salute you! To you is the honor of crossing blades with Lazaro.”

  Shaw, swift as light, lunged forward.

  The rapiers touched, clashed, hung suspended; they ground against each other, steel against steel, wrist against wrist. With his free hand, Barbarroja carelessly twirled his mustache. Shaw disengaged and lunged again. Once more the steel slithered and twined and hung futile against the sky.

  “Not bad, Englishman!” observed Barbarroja patronizingly. “Not bad! Come, thrust the point into this red beard of mine—thrust in the point! I recall a Frenchman who had learned the Italian blade and who fancied himself greatly, back at Ceuta.”

  Shaw attacked furiously, a silent deadliness in his manner. Barbarroja parried the attack, laughing, and continued his careless speech.

  “He was a clever Frenchman! He had a thrust not unlike yours, a stiff and upright godliness in his wrist. When I warned him against this red beard, he laughed, and had the audacity to thrust straight into it. And what then? Why—”

  A curse fell from Shaw’s lips. Not even a doctor of divinity but is human; and for one flickering instant the point of Barbarroja had licked at his throat. He parried, lunged again, pressed the attack with a colder skill, a more supple wrist. Barbarroja escaped only by a backward leap, disengaging. Shaw was upon him instantly. Again the thin blades met and twined, and hung suspended with life wavering in the balance.

  “We were speaking of that Frenchman,” pursued Barbarroja, again twirling his red mustache. “He thought I jested, even as you think, little señor! And the point in my red beard—Dios! Have a care with that riposte—the point was tangled in my beard, señor, and my own point pricked him very neatly in the throat—thus—”

  Barbarroja laughed very heartily; and midway of the laugh lunged like a demon.

  In and out flickered his blade, a very tongue of death, and his eyes glared in sudden hot ferocity for blood. Shaw evaded that licking tongue by a hair; it reached around him, baffled him, bore him desperately backward.

  He fought only by inspiration; his eyes upon the blazing stare of Barbarroja, his blade fending off the slithering death by sheer intuition. This could not last long, and Shaw knew it.

  He was driven back and back, while ever those blood-hot eyes glared upon him, and the Toledo slid ever with more deadly lust. Now he was growing weary.

  Abruptly Shaw gathered himself together, so abruptly that in the very midst of his retreat he plunged forward. The two blades went upward, locked at the hilts; then Shaw thrust back and forward again, leaped away, stood on guard. It was all in a flash.

  Barbarroja moved not. He stared at Shaw with an expression of dismayed consternation. Then, unexpectedly, the Toledo dropped from his hand. Across his breast surged a sudden wide flare of crimson. His knees crumpled; he plunged forward on his face and lay quiet.

  “Whether he died from the point,” murmured Shaw, panting, “or from sheer amazement that I pinked him—’tis all one. The result, logically enough.”

  From the three ruffians came a wild, hoarse yell—a shout of mingled rage, despair, and fright. They broke and ran for the horses. With a rush, a scramble, a flood of hot oaths, they mounted and took to flight. Dr. Shaw gazed after them, wide-eyed. Then he felt the hand of Mistress Betty seize his arm—heard
her voice crying out at him:

  “Look! Look—it is he—Spence!”

  Shaw whirled about. There, upon the road, he beheld a cloud of dust, and far ahead of the dust three riders already drawing close—the foremost of them Spence.

  An instant later Spence was reining up beside them, while his men whirled on in pursuit of the three escaping rogues.

  “Good!” cried Spence, exultantly shaking hands. “The old governor scented something amiss in your departure—he said I might catch up with you, so I came along. Shaw, what’s been going on here? Why did you leave town, Mistress Betty?”

  There was a moment of hurried explanations as all spoke at once. Then the girl seized upon the story, and Spence heard of what had taken place. Soberly he nodded at mention of Mulai Ali’s death.

  “Aye, we heard of his death—Ripperda was carried off his feet with delight. He is a gracious scoundrel, that Ripperda! Hello, Shaw, what are you up to?”

  They turned. Dr. Shaw was muttering over the Toledo, which he had picked up. Now he lifted his face to them, his eyes gleaming with delight.

  “Look!” he cried. “The rascal told the truth! This graving says that the blade was made at Toledo, in the year 368 of the Moslem calendar, by special order of the great Almansur of Cordova! To think of such a sweet tool—a historic relic—eight hundred years of age.”

  “Thrust it into your scabbard and let us be gone—with congratulations on your victory, doctor! A noble fight. But Ripperda is awaiting you, and so keep your wits about you.”

  Shaw stared with fallen jaw. Ripperda!

  “Then look to yourself, Patrick!” he cried suddenly. “This Barbarroja told me that it is known you carry the casket behind your saddle! Gholam Mahmoud knows it.”

  Spence broke into another hearty laugh.

  “Nay, let him search!” he cried gaily. “When I met with Ripperda, yesterday, I threw the box into the river. The box is gone, Mulai Ali is dead—there is an end to all intrigue! Here come three horsemen who rode with me.”

  The horsemen, among whom were some of Ripperda’s bodyguard, were returning. At the saddle of the three foremost were three bloody heads. Steel, says the proverb, is swifter than judgment.