The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  The other whistled softly. “I heard there was a wrecked boat lying here. That’s one reason I came up here today. You say he was shot?”

  “A little after his craft there was blown up ashore, yes. One man got away. That’s why I’m here. He brought word of my uncle’s death.”

  Doctor John regarded him thoughtfully. “Any sign of him?”

  “None,” said Shutz. “Whew! It’s sure hot out here.”

  “Shall we go below?” suggested the other. “I’d like to see your ice plant.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Shutz rose. Ruthven was buried in the wreck ashore; a thin clang of metal came from her bowels. The launch was riding on the line, well out from the sand.

  The two men went below. A bit of breeze drifted through the open ports and the absence of sun-glare was grateful.

  “Queer about your uncle,” said the doctor. “Who did the shooting?”

  “Parties unknown,” said Shutz. “There are some bad hombres on this island. Outlaws of a sort, I imagine. Met any of them?”

  “A couple,” and the other nodded assent. “They brought some gold down to the settlement and traded it for supplies. They looked like tough specimens, too. Going to be here long? Why not pay our settlement a visit?”

  “Other business,” said Shutz. “We’re leaving the minute we can pull out. Some trouble with the engine. Ruthven’s trying to get some parts from the wreck.”

  “I’m a pretty good hand with engines,” said Doctor John. “I’ll give him a lift when he comes aboard; two heads are better than one. Get anything worthwhile from the wreck?”

  Shutz looked at his drink reflectively. The question suddenly jarred him.

  “Everything’s been looted,” he said.

  “Pearl buyer, eh?” Doctor John sipped at his drink, his eyes suddenly very bright. “I imagine they didn’t know it, eh? Probably tried to get hold of his craft. These fellows up in the hills are regular marooned savages, by all accounts. Likely they didn’t know his craft was a wreck until they’d jumped him. Hm-m-m! Did he have pearls aboard?”

  Shutz looked up, met that bright, intent gaze, met it in silence for an instant. The doctor had certainly figured out exactly what might have been the motives of the murderers.

  “Did he?” said Shutz slowly. “That’s just the question, doctor.”

  A sharp and heavy sound impacted on their ears—a sound caught up and reechoed by the cliffs and rocks, until it lessened and died. Shutz started.

  “What was that?” he exclaimed. “A rifle?”

  “Probably,” said the other, quite calmly. “I imagine my friend Juan knocked over a rabbit. He had a rifle along.”

  Shutz came to his feet. A sense of acute peril suddenly pricked at him. He felt as though some monstrous danger was at his very elbow. He remembered what Ruthven had said about this man.

  “I’ll run up and make sure everything’s right,” he said quietly.

  “Not a bad idea.” Doctor John nodded pleasantly and rose. “I’ll come along, what?”

  Shutz did not wait for him, but turned and bolted up the ladder to the deck. He knew now what Ruthven had felt; the inexorable closing down of something, as though the brazen sky were drawing in upon him. Something he could not escape. He felt in a trap, snared beyond escape; a vague peril was seemingly all about him. He came leaping to the deck and stared around. Nothing was in sight. The shore was empty. No sign of Ruthven anywhere. He called sharply, but had no reply.

  Shutz found the launch tugging at the line; the tide was on the ebb. He ran to the prow and jumped over, waded ashore, ran up the white sand toward the wreck. He glanced back to see Doctor John standing at the rail, watching him, and fancied that the man was smiling. With a muttered oath, Shutz came hurriedly to the wreck.

  “Ruthven! Where are you?”

  He was on the high side. Stumbling to the twisted, broken prow, he glanced down the sharply inclined deck. Ruthven lay there, half over the side, half in the sand, face upward. As he stood, Shutz could see the little blue hole in his forehead; dead—murdered! No need to go closer.

  Stunned for a moment, Shutz glanced up. He saw Doctor John on the bow of his own launch, one arm lifted as though in a gesture of command, heard his voice hurled out in Mexican words, saw he faced toward those rocks by the ravine. Suddenly it all came over him. The other man there—hidden with a rifle.

  “Shutz!” It was the doctor, calling to him. “Come to the shore a moment!”

  He saw everything in a flash. Ruthven had stood erect and the hidden killer had shot him through the head. This doctor had planned it all from the start. Knocked over a rabbit, eh? These same two men, perhaps, had murdered his uncle. They had wanted a boat in which to get away. Now they had his boat, and he was here, ashore, marooned!

  “But not helpless yet,” muttered Shutz.

  He turned deliberately toward the shore. “Yes?” he called. “Ruthven’s disappeared! Can you see him over at the creek?”

  “No sign of him,” returned the doctor. “Come back to the beach. Want to talk to you.”

  That gesture to the murderer had checked his fire. Shutz knew he would have been shot down ere this had not the doctor commanded otherwise. With a tremendous effort he kept himself in hand, controlled his throbbing pulses, forced himself to play a part. Even now he found it hard to believe that this man with whom he had talked was not what he seemed. Only the ghastly face of Ruthven brought conviction.

  The man did not want to kill him, he saw. There was something behind all this. As he stumbled back through the loose sand, he saw that he was very close to death, but the doctor was playing with him, wanted something from him. The pearls—of course! The man never suspected that he had obtained them already!

  “No sign of your friend?” called the doctor.

  “Not in sight,” returned Shutz. “It’s blasted queer where he went!”

  He was at the beach now, mopping his face, looking about uncertainly. His fingers itched for the slim, deadly pistol in the holster under his armpit, but this was not the time yet. Then, with a leap and a splash, Doctor John was off the launch and wading ashore, with a laugh on his reckless face.

  “Perhaps he went over to the stream, or up the shore,” he said, and put hand to pocket. He jerked out a pistol and lifted it, sent two shots roaring into the air, the echoes volleying up and up along the cliffs and peak. “That ought to fetch him, eh?”

  Shutz stared at him stupidly and then, as the doctor came close to him, Shutz moved with the lightning-swift lunge of a rattler. The doctor had absolutely no warning. One instant, Shutz was standing there staring; the next, he was in the air. His fist took the doctor under the ear and knocked him sprawling, and as he fell, Shutz was on top of him, clutching at the pistol, tearing it free.

  Then, rolling clear, Shutz came to one knee and threw down his weapon at the doctor, as the latter came erect with catlike agility.

  “Hands up!” he barked, and the other obeyed, glaring at him, mouthing curses. “Two shots; that was meant to call down the rest of your gang, eh? Tell ’em you had a boat all ready, eh? Well, you can guess again.”

  “You’re crazy!” exclaimed the other. “You’ve gone mad!”

  “Yes, just like a fox,” and Shutz laughed a little. “Your game’s up, mister, and it’s up right here, savvy? You and your gang murdered my uncle, and you’ve murdered Ruthven, and you’d have done for me except that you wanted the pearls. Pearls, eh? Well, you’ll not get any pearls. No sale this trip! They were hidden all right, and where you’d never have found them unless you tore the whole wreck to pieces.”

  The other man flung off all pretense. Meeting the blazing eyes of Shutz, he saw that lies were useless.

  “Smart young sprig, ain’t you?” he retorted, with an oath. “Well, you’d better—”

  “Save your breath,” cut in Shutz curtly. “No, I’m not standing up, thanks; your hidden killer won’t get me. Sorry I can’t put a bullet into you like you deserve, you rat! And to
think of me giving you a drink—faugh!”

  The suntanned, passion-darkened features of the other man were convulsed with anger. Hands in air, he stared at Shutz from bloodshot eyes.

  “I suppose you’re an American of sorts, eh?” went on Shutz with contempt in his voice. “Tell you what I’ll do, doc. I’m going to make the closest mainland port and then come back here with enough soldiers to hunt you down, understand? You can stay right here on this nice little rock pile of yours until I come back, too. No danger of your getting away from here! I can’t take you with me this trip, but I’ll be back, never fear. By the way, just what might your real name be?”

  “Gorman, if that means anything to you,” said the other, with a sneer.

  “Gorman, eh? Never heard of you. Probably the police have, though—that went home, eh? Well, much obliged for the information.”

  “It won’t do you any good,” said Gorman.

  Shutz did not reply. He was aware of a change that had come almost imperceptibly. The sun had passed behind the peak above, so that shadow reached out across the sand spit. Still on one knee, he thrust back his cap and considered. He was close to the water, but he did not intend to rise. He could crawl down to the water and so get out to the shelter of the launch. Even so, he must do it swiftly. Held by the line as she was, the launch was bow into the sand now. He must get her off, let her float out with the tide.

  “Vamoose!” he said, and jerked the heavy pistol. “Turn around and march. Quick!”

  Gorman merely looked at him and grinned—an ugly grin that showed white teeth. Shutz frowned.

  “You hear me? I’ll give you three, before I put a bullet into your foot. One, two—”

  Something struck him with fearful force. He was lifted around, flung face down on the sand. The reverberating roar of a rifle shot came to him just as everything went black before his eyes.

  CHAPTER III

  BIRDS OF PREY

  Gorman let down his arms, looked at the prostrate Shutz, and grinned. Then he went to the unconscious man, picked up his own pistol, thrust his hand in beneath Shutz’s shirt, and brought forth the flat automatic. His hand and the weapon were all red with bright scarlet. He dropped the automatic into his pocket, leaned over, and rose with a soft whistle.

  “Not dead, but will be soon enough,” he observed. “Bleeding like a pig!”

  He looked up and waved his hand. Two men were running out from the shelter of the rocks toward him. Gorman felt for Shutz’s cigarettes and lighted one of them.

  “Good work, Paxton!” he exclaimed as the two approached. “Hit him under the arm and looks like it blew the lights out of him. Come on over to the wreck. Carry him there and leave him with the other one, out of sight in case any boats go by. The birds will finish everything before noon tomorrow.”

  Paxton, a ruffianly man, laid down his rifle and chuckled, as Gorman held out the cigarettes.

  “Guess I ain’t forgot how to shoot, huh?” he said complacently. “Scotty bet me a dollar I wouldn’t drop this guy.”

  Scotty, a weak-faced rat of a man, glanced at the launch.

  “Any liquor aboard her?” he demanded.

  Gorman made an impatient gesture.

  “Yes. When the time comes. First, carry this bird over with the other one. I want to take another look at the wreck, too.”

  He strode on in advance, walking with swift energy, in striking contrast to the lethargy of the other two men. They, picking up the body of Shutz, followed him more slowly.

  When he reached the wreck, Gorman glanced casually at Ruthven and went on aft, slipping swiftly down the companion. In the tiny cabin, he stood glancing around. His eye was caught by the picture frame, still half-open. With an ejaculation, he went to it, peered into the empty space behind, angrily tore the picture and frame from its pivot.

  “That’s what he was doing here in the first place, of course,” he muttered. “Hm-m-m! He came out to the launch and went below—hid ’em there. All right.”

  He left the cabin again, paused on the deck to watch the two men as they rifled the body of Shutz. They looked up suddenly, caught sight of him, grinned sheepishly. With a sardonic expression, Gorman joined them.

  “No, keep the money, boys,” he said, as Scotty offered to divide. “There’ll be a bit of work to do on that craft—her engine’s not in shape. We don’t want to get away before night, anyhow. Does Ensenada suit you both?”

  “I reckon,” assented Paxton. “But no farther north than that, Gorman! These here cops has got it all arranged with any border town. The greasers hit you over the head and, when you wake up, you’re back in America with jail ahead. They don’t worry about no extradition.”

  Gorman smiled. “Correct. When we get aboard, now, I don’t want any looting. Wait until we get to Ensenada before we go through the craft. I’ll have to get her papers and go forth and be ready to answer questions.”

  Scotty winked at his partner, as Gorman started away. Paxton jerked his thumb toward Ruthven’s body, and was just stooping when a sharp exclamation broke from Gorman.

  “Here, you two! Jump for it! I forgot about the damned tide—come on!”

  The urgency of his voice impelled them. Gorman started to run, and they scrambled after him, not understanding.

  They comprehended well enough when they reached the water’s edge, however. Held by the line ashore, the launch was now canted over, her bow deep in the sand and quite clear of the retreating water. An oath broke from Gorman as he saw that they would never get her clear until high water came to float her. The other two joined him, cast off the line, strained unavailingly. Not a dozen men could have lifted that heavy craft from her bed.

  “Well, we’re in for a wait,” said Gorman angrily.

  “We should worry,” observed Paxton. “A few hours more ain’t going to hurt none. Say, we’ve sure done better this time, huh? We got nothing but some grub out of that other craft, and now we’re all set to go somewheres. Durned if we ain’t real millionaires, now, private yacht and everything! Me, I’m going to live like a lord till we reach Ensenada.”

  “Come on aboard,” said Gorman. “You two can give me a hand with the engine before dark. Scotty, take the plugs out of her. Paxton, you get to work cleaning them as fast as they come out. I’ll be back in a minute with a bottle of liquor for you.”

  * * * *

  They climbed up to the sloping deck, which was canting over more rapidly with every moment. Gorman went below, but after a short investigation realized that searching through the cabins would take time, so he caught up cigars and a bottle, and went back on deck. It never occurred to him that the pearls might be in Shutz’s jacket, so carelessly flung into a corner. In an hour or so it would be dark, and he wanted to get as much overhauling done as possible before then. The launch was fitted with electric lights, but he dared not use them while laid up. Someone from the settlement farther south, or some passing craft, might see them and investigate. He joined the other two in the engine cockpit, and they greeted his advent with joyous oaths, and fell cheerfully to work.

  “With this here craft,” said Paxton after a long drink, “we might go on south instead of heading north. Police ain’t looking for you down the coast, Gorman?”

  “Hardly,” and Gorman laughed. “They’re looking for me a good ways north of here.”

  “Might be safer down the coast for me, too,” and Paxton grinned, as he chipped the incrustation from a plug. “I want to get as far from the U. S. army as possible.”

  “Yeah.” Scotty gave an inane chortle. “They got pictures pasted up all over Ensenada, feller. I bet they got one of an ex-sergeant, marksman first class, wanted for murder up in—”

  He shut up hurriedly at sight of Paxton’s face.

  “Cut it,” snapped Gorman, working at the distributor. “As soon as we get her in shape, we’ll have supper and then clean up all around. Me, too; I need a shave. And we don’t have to sleep out in the fog tonight.”

  “That danged
fog has been killing me,” complained Scotty. “Weavin’ up around them peaks every night, thick as butter! I’m glad to get shut of it. Them plugs is all out and cleaned and in again. What next?”

  “Gas line’s stopped, and there’s water in the carburetor,” said Gorman.

  So they worked, while the shadows gradually deepened, and the sun sank to its ocean bed on the other side of Cerros Island.

  * * * *

  It was some time later that Shutz wakened to a dim, helpless wonder.

  For a moment he could not move; it seemed that invisible bonds held him lashed down. He looked around, and realized that the daylight was fading. The white, dead face of Ruthven stared at him from the steeply inclined deck, and at that everything came back with a rush. He knew where he was now, remembered what had happened.

  When he tried again to move, and succeeded, it was with a frightful pain in his side, back, and breast.

  He investigated by slow degrees, and was startled by sight of the blood that had seeped out over his shirt, drying there. His left arm seemed glued to his side. And yet, when he made an effort and sat up his body felt sound enough. He investigated, absorbed in his own chance of life or death for the moment.

  To his astonishment, no bullet had pierced him.

  He saw the reason after a little, and remembered how he had been resting on one knee, at the instant he was hit. The bullet had struck under his left arm, but it had struck the holstered pistol there, inside his shirt, and had been deflected. His skin was badly torn, true, and loss of blood had weakened him, but this was the extent of the damage. The pistol, driven against his breast and ribs with the terrific force of the impact, had dug at his flesh, had knocked the breath out of him, had given him a nasty bruise and a bad-looking hurt—nothing worse. He could even use his left arm, though not without pain.

  And now the darkness was falling, and consuming thirst was upon him.

  He had been dropped almost beside Ruthven, close to the forward end of the wreck. Looking through his pockets, Shutz found everything gone. He edged over to Ruthven, put his hand beneath the latter’s hip, and to his almost incredulous delight felt the pistol there. He swiftly loosened the belt, dragged it clear, buckled it about his own hips. A pistol! Then he might have a chance after all.